Assassins Creed: Contingency Plan
by Gavindor
Summary: Desmond Miles has been left on his own in the lab. He listens to his instincts and is eventually helped by friends he never knew he had. And though the use of Altair, the fabled assassin, changes the course of history.
1. Dear Desmond

**Chapter 1: Dear Desmond**

Desmond Miles blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. He couldn't believe his eyes, of all the weird things in this place, this was he weirdest. For a moment he thought he had been imaging it. That maybe the week he'd just spent in the Animus was making him crazy.

But no. It hadn't, and he wasn't crazy.

There was blood on the walls.

Or at least there had been blood there before but it had been cleaned. Even though he didn't understand the Eagle Vision his ancestor had had, it seemed that other than discovering people's allegiances and uses, it also allowed him to see where blood had previously been.

As he paced back and forth across his immaculately clean and white room he once again wondered whose blood it was. He couldn't tell, but the writing itself looked Asian, but that was all he could discover from looking at it. He'd seen blood before. Having once been an assassin he had seen it a lot. But this unnerved him, maybe it was the fact that it glowed in the Eagle Vision, or maybe it was the fact that in the centre of all the writings on the wall there was what looked like a mask, almost alien and clearly the ravings of a mad man or woman.

He felt drawn to it, as though he wanted a closer look; call it instinct if you will. Before he knew it he was crawling on his bed towards it, seeing clearly the lines and texture of it in his Eagle Vision. As he finally reached the blood-drawn mask he was hit anew by its eeriness, but that didn't stop him from treating it like a mask and looking through the eyes at the wall. For a moment nothing happened, and he started to fell rather silly.

Then suddenly there was a flash of light, but he didn't blink and soon it stopped. He jerked his head back quickly, wondering what the hell had just happened. Then there was a click directly where he had just looked and to his speechless surprise he watched as the mask came out of the wall by an inch, and swung outwards like a door.

What he saw inside made him doubly surprised, and confused. There was a small lead compartment. At the back was a retina scanner, which probably explained the light he had seen, but it wasn't that which interested him most. Also inside the compartment was a 9mm Browning with a silencer already attached to it, a combat knife, a hand-held GPS device and a phone.

And resting on top of them all was a letter neatly folded with the words: _To Desmond Miles_. Intrigued, he took it out of the compartment, sat on the bed and read.

_Dear Desmond _

_If you are reading this then my calculations are correct and our plans have been set in motion. Now don't sit there thinking about how it got here; just read the letter. When I first came here they had been working on the Animus for the first time and their test subject was a man, he was in the same situation that you have been in for the past week, only he had spent 2 years in the Animus and had been kept a prisoner by Abstergo. All that time spent as a prisoner, the frustration, the fear and anger all roll together until you can't distinguish one from the other._

_He had cut himself, and in his moment of insanity, had set about writing in his own blood about the 'end of the world'. When I came here for at least the fourth time we found the man dead lying in a small pool of his own blood (he didn't have much left). It hadn't worried Vidic at all, he had just sighed and called for the cleaners to come in and take care of it. And when he left I cut myself and wrote the code for the office on the floor in my own blood to disguise it amongst the rest. They wouldn't check who's blood it was but assume it belonged to the man lying dead on the floor. _

_You will need this code to open the door and inside you are to cross to the other door and turn off all the camera monitors in there. Also in there is a vault, inside are the schematics to the Animus, don't worry about the schematics, they'll be taken care of in the rescue._

_Which leads us to the phone, at the bottom of this page is a mobile number, which can only be contacted by this phone. And since only you can open this safe that makes it secure. I want you to ring it and a friend of mine will answer. The gun and knife are for obvious reasons. The GPS is for something else, but don't worry, Louis will explain all of it to you._

_With the best of luck._

_Lucy_

_07986159442_

Desmond didn't know what to think. But just like his ancestor Altair he didn't wait, he acted. He took the gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans as well as the combat knife. The letter he folded and put into one of the pockets, along with the hand-held GPS, the phone he held, for right now it was his most valuable weapon.

He left the room an as he did so he looked at the Animus, even though he hated every day here, he found a sense of peace escaping his own life to get immersed in someone else's. He shook the affect the machine had on him off and strode to the wall by the office where there was a lot of electrical equipment hooked up in the corner. He stood by the wall next to the office and, taking a deep breath, concentrated. He opened his eyes and there it was. An 8-digit code which he committed to memory.

_12212012_

He walked to the door panel and keyed it in. He waited hoping against hope that it was correct and let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when the light turned blue and the door opened to admit him. Inside was the comfortable office room he had seen only through the window from the outside. Ignoring the lavish office complete with magazines, TV and coffee machine, he crossed from the outer doorway to the door at the far end and opened it.

This room was like the one before except that it was smaller. Against one wall was a lever with the words above it: CCTV Camera Override. Good of them to label everything so helpfully. He walked to it and pulled it down; he looked at one of the cameras out side the office and saw that the red light had gone out. Satisfied he pulled out the phone and dialed the number Lucy had written on the letter.

After several rings there was a click and a male voice answered.

"Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Desmond Miles?" the voice asked, a heavy French accent evident.

"You do," Desmond replied.

"Very good. My name is Louis," the man explained, "I assume that Lucy has already told you that in the letter she wrote but it's still polite to introduce one's self. Now then, to the first order of business, the GPS device you have in your possession, press the red button at the top and the screen should come on."

Desmond complied and the screen turned on, then there was a small beep and the bird's eye view of a map of an island came up, and to the left of that island a red dot appeared and blinked repeatedly. It also seemed that the building he was currently in was just near the ocean.

"Ah good!" said Louis, sounding pleased. "The GPS acts as a partner to the one I hold right now, you can see where I am but more importantly I can see where you are. Right now that that is done we will be with you shortly, and I look forward to meeting you in person. If there's anything you want to do before you go I suggest you do it now. But, until that time, au revoir."

The phone cut off and Desmond put it on the table next to him, now all he had to do was wait.

Wait for a rescue for a rescue he had never thought would come, but had always secretly hoped for. He went into the office and took the liberty of making himself a cup of coffee from the machine. When it was ready he breathed its aromas in deeply and sighed. After all the water and plain food he had been given for the past week drinking this coffee would make him feel almost normal again.

He had almost finished the coffee when he heard it. The deep fluttering drone of a helicopter's rotor blades, in the enjoyment of his coffee he had completely forgotten to check the GPS device. He looked at it now and saw that the red dot was fast approaching and as he ran out of the office and looked out of the window he saw it.

He couldn't make out what type it was but didn't care; he couldn't wait to be out of this place. Suddenly the phone in his pocket started to ring and once he had taken it out he answered it.

"Hello?" he shouted over the sound of the helicopter rotor blades.

"Just rang to warn you, you may want to get out of that room entirely. Because this is going to be messy!" Louis shouted back down the phone.

"How the hell are you going to land a helicopter in here?!" Desmond asked as he backed from the room completely, and into the office.

"Oh, don't worry about that, we have a solution."

Desmond was wondering what he meant when suddenly a bright red beam of light cut through the high walls just under the ceiling. He watched, mouth agape, as it worked its way from one end of the room to another. Now the whole ceiling had been converted into a lid, and then there was the sound of groaning metal and crumbling concrete as the ceiling rose up. As it moved he saw the light of day and after a week trapped inside this place he enjoyed the warmth of the sun.

He saw the helicopter in the distance, it seemed to be using one of those car-crusher magnets to lift the ceiling, he watched as the ceiling suddenly dropped and created a violent splash in the sea below. It came back and hovered above, two ropes dropped down from it, but before he could climb one of them two men wearing black combat gear slid down them and landed on the floor with practised ease.

When they had adjusted themselves they joined Desmond in the office and closed the door, effectively cutting off the sound off the sound of the helicopter. The first man who came in took off his facemask and shook his head. He was shorter than the average man and had short yellow-blonde hair and green eyes; he smiled when he saw Desmond and approached him. The other man behind him followed and also took off his facemask, he had dark black hair and blue eyes, and his face was expressionless as he followed the other man.

"Hello there Desmond," said Louis, "you remember me from the phone? I'm Louis and this" (he jerked a thumb in the direction of his companion) "is Mark."

The man nodded to Desmond and he in turn nodded back, he somehow got the sense from this man that he didn't like him for some reason and considered him a complete waste of a good rescue. Desmond didn't know why but decided he would work his way towards it later.

Desmond was still a little stunned from the entrance they had made but tried to hide it. "How was the trip?" he asked, saying the first thing that popped into his head, not knowing what else to say.

"Short. Let us get down to work. Did you remember to turn the cameras off?" Louis asked. Desmond nodded his reply and Louis acknowledged it by pressing a finger to an earpiece Desmond hadn't noticed before. "The cameras are off so it is safe to come down." He turned around to face the helicopter and Desmond followed his gaze. From the window he saw the helicopter land and four people disembark, one of them gave Louis a thumbs up gesture, and he and the rest of his team set about cutting at the Animus with blowtorches.

Desmond was stunned and wanted to know what was going on.

"What in the hell are you doing?!" he asked Louis.

"Relax, you didn't think we'd go to all this trouble just to rescue you, did you?" he asked rhetorically, squeezing Desmond's shoulder with a grin. "Now, can you show me and my friend to the vault if you please." Desmond, by no means reassured shook his head but nonetheless gestured for them to follow. He'd ask his questions later.

They followed him and when they saw the vault Louis whistled, but Mark was by no means impressed. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen before," he said, he had an English accent, "but I'll open it." He approached the Vault and started examining it.

Whilst he did this Louis tugged on Desmond's sleeve and jerked his head in the direction of the adjacent office. "We don't need to worry about the vault, Mark knows what he is doing. I see you made yourself at home." he said, his voice took on a slightly disapproving tone when he saw the empty coffee cup Desmond had left on the table.

"Yeah well, trying spending a week in a hell hole like this and you too would be begging for a cup of hot coffee," Desmond replied, stung a little by the tone of Louis's voice.

"Don't get me wrong," said Louis defensively, spreading his hands, "I would do the same in your position. It just seems funny that you're free for about fourteen minutes and already you're taking liberties with Abstergo's coffee machines," Louis remarked, laughing softly, he walked over to the cupboard and took out another cup, refilling Desmond's before his own.

"Speaking of freedom," Desmond said, "I thought this was strictly a rescue mission, but instead it seems you plan to steal the Animus," (he pointed at the Animus through the glass window, where from his view he could see the four men at work with the machine, each of them taking a corner of the outer layer and lifting its metal shell off the reveal some complicated machinery beneath) "and take the schematics for it as well," he said, gesturing again, this time in the direction of the vault room.

Louis shrugged his shoulders slightly. "We have plans of our own," he said, although he seemed to want to say more. "We saw an opportunity and decided to take it whilst striking a blow against our enemies."

"Yeah? And who exactly is we?" Desmond asked, starting to get annoyed at all this secrecy.

Louis just shook his head. "Not now. But later, I promise. Right now we need to concentrate on defence." He drank the rest of his cup and walked back to the helicopter. Frowning, Desmond quickly drank the rest of his cup too and followed him.

By now the helicopter had powered down and there was grateful silence. Louis approached it and knocked on the door, it slid open to reveal four more men. Although unlike the technicians working on the Animus, these men were in combat gear, at the moment they were checking their gear, and strapped around their shoulders they were sporting MP5's.

"What's the situation?" asked Louis. One of the men grimaced and showed Louis a computer screen inside. Louis leaned forward and examined it, he too grimacing, curious, Desmond did so as well, ignoring the searching glances of the four men. The screen seemed to have a short-range sensor, and right now it was showing ten red dots on the screen, and they were fast approaching the main door. And at the edge of the screen more were coming.

"Well," said Louis grimly, "it was only a matter of time before they noticed the ceiling of a building being lasered off and dropped into the ocean, then a helicopter landing directly inside said building." Desmond ignored him and, stepping out of the helicopter he put his head in his hands. Louis turned round and noticed, and again squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry," Louis said reassuringly, "we didn't come all this way for nothing, they won't get you again."

"Oh I know they won't," said Desmond malevolently, "because there is no way in hell I'm going to let them." He took the gun out of the waistband of his jeans to prove his point.

"That's the spirit," said Louis, just as they heard a sharp bang from the vault room. At once both their heads turned and they ran past the technicians taking apart the Animus, who had looks of frustration on their faces.

They entered the vault to find a triumphant Mark dusting his hands and grinning. "Told you I could do it, you get the plans while I go and collect on a little debt." He walked past them and disappeared through the door.

Louis grinned also and ran into the vault. Desmond joined him and together they began searching the many compartments that lined its walls. "Do you know which one it is?" asked Desmond. Searching through some files in a random compartment looking for the word Animus on any of the file holders.

"No. Lucy only knew that the schematics were kept in here but she was never allowed in here at all." Desmond uttered a few choice swear words but stopped suddenly. He hadn't found the schematics, instead he had found a file labelled: **The Piece of Eden**.

"I think I found something useful here." Desmond called. Louis came over and Desmond showed him the label.

"Great work, that'll come in handy later on," Louis said, returning to his search.

Desmond frowned. "What do you mean by _later_ _on_'?" he asked, annoyed at Louis' cryptic words.

"As I said before, I will explain later. Ah hah!" He held his hand up, and in it he was clutching a large thick folder. Labelled on it was: **Animus Schematics**. "I'm so glad they have everything clearly labelled. It is so very helpful of them," Louis said with glee.

Together they walked out from the vault and back into the 'landing area'. As they approached they heard voices.

"I won fair and square, so pay up," said Mark's voice, sounding very agitated.

"It is not fair, breaking into a vault is much easier than disconnecting a piece of machinery as complicated as this. You knew roughly how long it would take you to open the vault, whereas I had no idea what I was getting into," said a male American voice, as angry as Mark's.

"Then you shouldn't have taken the bet then should you! But you were obviously too arrogant to deny it. I may be the same but at least I can back up my claims and hold my end of the bet!" Mark shouted just as Desmond and Louis entered.

"What are you guys playing at?!" shouted Louis, shocking everyone with a surprisingly loud and powerful voice for such a small man.

"He won't pay up Louis." Mark complained, almost whining.

Louis tuned to the American technician, angry as hell. "Listen, I was there when you took this bet. The bet was that Mark could open he vault faster than you and your team could disconnect the Animus. You accepted without thinking about it and now you have to pay the price." The technician was about o open his mouth but Louis cut him off, "No John. No more arguing, just pay him and get on with the job. By now Abstergo's guards will be discussing how to open this door and how to kill us. Now I've got you the schematics, use them and get on."

John looked sullen, and with bad grace took out a leather wallet and paid Mark the amount due. Mark had the decency not to rub it in his face but instead walked towards the helicopter and picked up one of the MP5's on the racks inside. He beckoned Desmond over and Desmond complied, watching as John took one of the files out of the Animus folder and started examining it.

"Desmond, in case you haven't heard we're soon to be assaulted, now I don't know if you've been in a fire fight before but it's best to find some cover, this helicopters got enough armour to stop a missile." he said, patting the aircraft for emphasis. "But that doesn't make you invincible to flanking. Help me gather some stuff from around here and that will help us to build some kind of cover to hide behind when the bullets start flying," he said. He then walked off before Desmond could get a word in.

Desmond shrugged, and then grinned as an idea came into his head. He walked to the large office window and gazed at the table through it, but it wouldn't do, it was made of glass. So instead he walked into the surveillance room, and dragged the large, thick wooden table from there. He dragged it into the main conference room but when he looked at the doorway he realised he wouldn't be able to fit it through. He smiled as he thought of something, he walked to the conference table and picked up the closest chair, he then proceed to walk out of the room altogether into the main lab, he didn't want the glass or the chair hitting the technicians. When he was outside he took a deep breath and with all his might through the chair at the window, it didn't shatter but held slightly, breaking with a resounding crunch.

Some of the technicians looked around to see what the commotion was but he ignored them, instead he kicked at the rest of the glass and stepped through. He grabbed the wooden table by the end and slowly, careful not to show any kind of weakness in front of these strangers, dragged the table through the now broken window. Once he had it outside he positioned it correctly and then he tipped it on its side, so the surface was facing the main entrance. He looked in Mark's direction and saw that he had had the same idea as Desmond, he had ripped Vidic's table from the floor and turned it over there.

Where he had set up his defence was the perfect position to flank the enemy when they came in. He saw what Desmond had done, and not to be outdone just because he had the smaller table he walked into the helicopter and flipped a switch. Suddenly a metal sheet came out of its right side facing the door. It was about 3cm thick and stretched down to the floor, wide enough to protect the technicians and provide cover for anyone else needing it.

With that done the men inside came out and took positions behind each of their chosen spots, one of them had a scoped MP5 and he stood with Mark as they waited.

"Remember watch out for any grenades, they may not have them but it's best to be prepared!" Mark called out. Desmond turned his head around sharply, he was worried, _grenades_?! Not only did he have to worry about bullets, he now had to worry about grenades as well!

Without warning the main door suddenly started to glow orange, and just as suddenly it melted. Everyone braced themselves and Desmond raised his pistol, but had removed the silencer to make the bullets faster. What came through the door was something they had least expected, a small robot wheeled into the room, about half a metre tall. No one did anything, then it started clanking and just like the helicopter it too sprouted armour like a blossoming flower providing cover for the enemy, only it did it with gaps for the men to step through.

For a moment, everything was silent.

And then the shooting started.

The first man through the door took a round from the marksman's scoped MP5 directly in the neck, and fell to the ground with a thud, his body as limp as a rag doll's. Then they came through the door in a rush, two more went down but the rest had just enough time and had taken positions. Behind the armour they fired in turns, these men weren't your run of the mill security guards; these men were trained with almost military precision, or at least some of them had experience, and others knew how to handle themselves in a fire fight.

Eventually more came in, and in no time at all there were now a dozen returning fire. It was just a shooting match, both couldn't get a bullet in edge wise and only the marksman by Mark's cover was doing any real damage. Desmond, unlike the others, was fighting ferociously, all that time fighting as Altair has sharpened his reflexes and he was taking out men like flies. But it wasn't enough. He knew that soon these men would gather enough courage to charge, no matter how many lives were lost, and Desmond knew they wouldn't be able to stop them all at once.

Suddenly he heard a clang behind him and, with his back pressed against the table looked from behind his bullet-dented table to see Louis helping the technicians load the Animus onto the helicopter using a small ramp. It was pushed to the back and Louis beckoned that every one should pull back to the helicopter.

Grateful, Desmond fired a few more rounds at the enemy and crawled towards the helicopter, careful not to show his head. The rest were doing the same and only Mark and the man next to him were still shooting. The enemy saw this and through the camera inside the helicopter Desmond could see a few of them grinning, not believing their luck. Or lack of luck as they were about to find out. Inside the helicopter Louis smiled. He flipped another switch and a small turret appeared out of nowhere on at the side of the helicopter and kept the enemy pinned down with rapid fire.

Mark and the other man ran quickly to the helicopter as its blades started rotating and building up speed. The enemy saw this and Desmond watched again on camera as one of them lunged out of his position and was immediately cut down but the turret, then suddenly six more did, the turret couldn't take them all out at once and one got through.

Just as the Helicopter was lifting off that man grabbed the end of one of the ropes that someone had forgotten to collect. The helicopter lifted off fast and they were quickly over open water. Desmond looked out over the sea through the helicopter doorway and saw the rope hadn't been collected. So did Mark, he went over to collect it but as he tugged it didn't budge, he frowned and looked downwards. And had to duck back quickly as a spray of bullets almost hit him where his head had just been.

Everyone was alert now, and they knew that somehow one of the guards had managed to get one of the ropes. Desmond went to look, he saw the man, an Uzi strapped around his shoulder. He was climbing the rope and Desmond knew that if they didn't kill him and he managed to get up then in such a closed space as the helicopters interior he would kill many of them.

Desmond took the combat knife from the waistband of his jeans and concentrated like his ancestor used to do. He had to time this carefully, because the man was swinging back and forth. With the speed and calculation of a cobra he leaned out and threw the knife at the man.

For a moment Desmond had thought he'd missed, but then he saw the blood on the man's face leaking blood from his forehead where Desmond's knife was buried in it. Mark looked surprised, and shot the dead man to get his dead, stiff fingers off the rope. The man fell with a splash in the sea. Mark collected the rope and closed the side door.

"And," he said, "you didn't even need to do something cliché like sawing the rope."

* * *

What'd you think? It's my first time writing on fanfiction for a very long time and I hope this chapter has gone down well. Just to clear a few questions up. The number is made up and I have no idea who it might belong to. The number which I said is on the floor is on the game but who knows whether or not it unlocks the office door. But I needed it to fit in my story. If you're wondering about how Lucy got that letter in all will be revealed later.

Hope you enjoyed it and feel free to offer any criticism, as long as it's constructive.


	2. Two Rescues in One Day

**Chapter 2: Two Rescues in One Day**

The sea sped fast below them. Everything was quiet inside the helicopter save for the sound of its rotor blades. It seemed that the injuries sustained by the enemy's fire were more serious than Desmond had thought. Thinking back he remembered how some of their own men hadn't been firing back, he had been too absorbed with fighting back against the men who had captured him and made him endure this hell for the past week to notice the actions of those around him.

He looked around and gazed for a while at the Animus, safely strapped at the back of the helicopter. It no longer glowed like it had previously done back in the lab. He guessed that was because it was no longer connected up to its electrical equipment. No matter how much he tried to hate the machine, he couldn't help but feel slightly attached to it.

For the week spent inside the Animus had shown him more about himself than he had thought possible. He loved and hated being Altair, an assassin who had accomplished more in a short week than he had in his entire life. Anyone would have thought that something like that would have made him feel horrible but the fact that he had shared the experience with Altair made him feel like he had been a part of it.

Every jump, every slash, and every parry he had felt through the arms of his ancestor as though they were his own. But he had also felt Altair's emotions, and some of them had mirrored his own when Altair was feeling as though he was trapped. The feeling that in all of his actions he had felt as though he had no choice at all in the deaths of the men he killed, murdered and maimed. He had also felt Altair's feeling of Al Mualim's betrayal first hand; it had cut both Desmond and Altair very deep at the same time.

But right now he couldn't focus on that, they were slowing down, when he looked out the window all he could see was more sea. He couldn't look down at all so he couldn't see what was going on and where they were going to land.

He turned to Louis who was sitting directly across from him. "Where exactly are we going?" he asked him.

Louis woke from his light doze and turned round as well from his window with a small mischievous smile. "You will see soon, eh?" Was all he would say. Which basically meant that Desmond would just have to find out for himself.

As they began to land they tilted slightly, leaning left. And Desmond was able to look out of the window and see where it was that they were landing. It was a ship, but like the helicopter it was unlike anything he had ever seen before in his life. It was the size of a standard destroyer, but shaped like a submarine. Near the front of the ship/submarine there was a rectangular opening that had slid open to reveal some kind of entrance big enough for the helicopter to fit in, and he assumed that this was where they were going to land.

Sure enough they descended through the opening and the darkness rose up past the windows of the helicopter like water, turning everything inside it pitch-black. Then they slowed completely and landed with a loud echoed thud, light now shining through the windows. Then Louis got up and slid back the helicopter door. Outside there were many people bustling around but the ones that stood out the most were two men and one woman, standing near the back of the hangar.

As he and the others emptied the craft Desmond studied them closer. The man in front of the trio was tall and imposing, and Desmond got the feeling somehow that this man was the leader of whoever this organisation was, or whatever it may be. He was bald with grey eyes and a narrow, gaunt face. Not that these looks would have given you the impression that this man was a pushover. The rest of him was pure muscle, and he seemed to tower over all. He looked to be in his late forties but gave the impression of huge amounts of stamina and vitality. He was not armed but he didn't look as though he needed one, he himself was a weapon.

The man behind him was just as tall, if only a little less imposing. He had striking hawkish features and his eyes seemed to narrow as he focused on the group exiting the helicopter. He wore casual clothes, grey slacks and tight fitting grey t-shirt. He was also sporting a wicked looking gun strapped to his right hip, wicked as in it looked deadly. He stood behind the lead man like a bodyguard would his charge, and that's what Desmond assumed he was.

The woman behind them was the one he couldn't take his eyes off, was it just him or did she look a lot like Lucy? The blonde hair, fashioned in the way Lucy always did, blue eyes and for a woman who looked older than 35 she was handsome to say the least. She wore a white lab coat like the one Vidic had often worn, but instead of wearing it as a symbol of misused power and malice, she wore it with the presence of someone who deserved it and wore it as a symbol of her own intelligence where other men had failed to achieve it.

As they emptied the helicopter they were all made to stand in a line quickly and a head count was done. A look of relief passed over the lead man's face when he realised that no men had been lost. He nodded at the woman, and she went to a telephone connected to the wall and called for stretchers to bear the injured to the infirmary. When that was done all were dismissed but the lead technician John, Louis, Mark and Desmond himself.

"I'm glad you made it back in one piece, Louis," said the lead man. He clasped Louis's arm strongly.

Louis returned the gesture with heartfelt warmth. "It is good to be back in one piece," he replied, "even if that piece has been shot a couple of times," he said, gesturing at the wounded being carried away on stretchers.

"That is unfortunate," he replied, "but at least none of them died. So we can be grateful for that small fortune at least. I see the operation still went as planned though." He turned to look at Desmond this time and Desmond felt as if he was being searched by those eyes but was not going to flinch beneath the man's gaze.

"Indeed it did. We were also able to get the Animus, its schematics and Desmond also found some files on The Piece of Eden." Louis's words were confirmed when the Animus slid down the ramp and a group of men rushed forward to secure and examine it. "That reminds me," Louis waved Desmond forward and Desmond complied, "Desmond, this is Alexander Demitriov. He is the leader of our organisation." So, Desmond had been right in his observations, this man was the leader.

Alexander stepped forward with an outstretched hand and Desmond shook it, the man had a firm grip. "I have heard little about you,"he said honestly, "only what I read in Lucy's reports. But we shall see soon enough." Desmond wandered what he meant by that, and frowned at Louis who shook his head and mouthed the word 'later'.

"This man here is my associate James Thornton," said Alexander, indicating the man standing behind him. The man didn't offer to shake Desmond's hand but nodded to him instead, Desmond nodded back.

"Associate? That's just a flowery way of saying bodyguard right?" Desmond goaded. Thornton looked expressionless but Desmond saw his eyes narrow slightly.

Alexander smiled icily. "I prefer the term associate if you don't mind." Desmond clearly didn't have a choice in the matter. But he didn't care; he just shrugged his shoulders and wandered secretly when he would call him that again. "And this stunning woman here is Claire Mackintosh."

The woman behind him stepped forward and offered her hand, Desmond shook it. "I look forward to working with you," she said smiling. And Desmond smiled back, although a little uncertainly. Working with her? He looked towards Louis who again mouthed the word 'later'.

"With the introductions done let us retire to meeting room and you can debrief me there," said Alexander to Louis. As they walked off Louis quickly grabbed Mark who had been standing with the man who had joined him in the fire fight. He nodded to the man he had been talking with and joined them.

As they walked through the ship Desmond noticed that the place was roomy and was more like an office building than it was a submersible ship. All the walls had plasterboard to hide the 'ugliness' of the pipes and grid of metalwork behind them. While they were walking Mark caught up with Desmond.

"That was some very fine shooting in the lab by the way," Mark said, "I thought you had never been in a fire fight before but it seems I was wrong. Funny, I'm usually very good at assessing people."

Mark looked thoughtful as he said those last few words and Desmond got the impression he had given Mark cause to doubt his 'abilities'. "Just so you know," Desmond said, "I haven't been in a fire fight before." This seemed to make Mark frown even more so Desmond decided to be straight with him. "I think that spending a week in the Animus as Altair has changed me in some way. I think the time spent in there has sharpened senses I didn't even know were rusty." This seemed to satisfy Mark who nodded as if he understood.

Which was more than Desmond, who had said that just as much to himself as he had to Mark. He had no idea how it was that he had downed all those men. Although at the time when he had been an assassin he had been quite proficient, but that had stopped when he had left the business. The gun might have been instinct, but throwing knives had never been his thing. Only Altair could have done something so skillful, and this worried him quite a bit.

They had stopped suddenly and Desmond realised that while he had been thinking, completely absorbed in his own thoughts, they had reached the so-called meeting room and everyone had already gone in except him. Desmond shook his head a bit and entered. Unlike the office room in the Abstergo lab this room seemed more comfy than futuristic. Instead of seat s of 'powerful' leather there were comfy armchairs around the room in which to sit. And the walls weren't whitewashed but made of polished oak; all it needed was a fire burning warmly in the corner to turn this room into a cozy, country cottage.

The armchairs had been set around an oak table, which were also made of oak and went nicely with the walls. Everyone was seated around it and Desmond joined them.

"So," started Alexander, "let us begin. Louis, start from the beginning, and leave nothing out."

Louis did just that. He described how he had been waiting for a call from Desmond, which he was supposed to receive today. How he did receive it, and left for the helicopter. Along with Mark, lead technician John and his team, and squad 7, who Desmond assumed were the four men who he had been fighting alongside with.

He described how he had arrived, taken the roof off, and greeted Desmond. Then how he and Desmond had found useful files after Mark had blown open the vault, and how they had fought their way out of the lab once the technicians had disconnected the Animus and stored it securely inside the helicopter.

Once everything had been explained Desmond was asked if he would like to ask any questions.

"Would I like to ask any questions?" Desmond repeated. "Hmmm... let me try to think of one, oh, there's so many of them. But my main one would be: What in the hell is going on?!" Desmond shouted. Louis winced, he had been expecting Desmond to react this way but it still made him recoil slightly. "Firstly, who the hell are you people? Secondly, why the hell do you want the Animus, and the plans for it? And thirdly, why would the Piece of Eden file be 'useful' _later on_?"

Desmond had tried very hard not to shout the questions but towards the end he had felt the volume of his voice rising. Alexander had listened to Desmond's 'rampage' in silence but now he spoke. "I will not say to you that I understand your frustration and what you are going through because I simply don't," he said, "But, I will do my best to answer those questions you so politely put forward as best as I can."

He got up from the table and started walking towards the light switch by the door, once he reached it he rested his finger on it and Desmond realised he was going to turn it off. Desmond was worried that they were going to try and kill him in the dark and then realised that there had been plenty of chances already to kill him. He relaxed but remained vigilant nonetheless

"We are-" Alexander started but was cut off as there was a sharp knock at the door. As he was closest to it Alexander opened it and let in a young man Desmond hadn't met yet.

"Sorry sir," the man said, "but Lucy's alarm is going off." Desmond wondered what that meant. Did she set some kind of alarm clock, had it gone off and now the rest of the crew were dumbfounded as to how to turn it off? He doubted it somehow.

Immediately Alexander turned to Desmond. "I'm very sorry Desmond, but the explanation is going to have to wait for some other time." He turned around again and left, Thornton and Claire not far behind, her with a look of worry on her face.

Desmond looked at Louis questioningly. "What the hell was that all about?"

Louis sighed and he also had a look of worry on his face. "I will explain it to you on the way."

He headed out the door and Desmond and Mark followed. But Louis turned around and stopped Mark. "No," he said to Mark, "get squads 9, 4 and 1 together. They're fully functional, get the helicopter fuelled and prepped, and also, try to slam together a quick operation. We going to need to do this fast."

Mark nodded and left in the direction of the ship's hangar where the helicopter had landed.

"So you treat your men like robots," Desmond stated with disgust, "functional? And do what fast?"

Louis rolled his eyes at Desmond's criticism. "When I say functional I mean that the squads have no injuries and have full squads. And I meant put a rescue operation together fast."

Desmond chuckled softly. "Two rescues in one day. You sure are a busy lot around here. Who are you rescuing?" Desmond asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Lucy," said Louis. "When it was time for Lucy to infiltrate Abstergo we gave her an alarm device, it was well hidden in a place no gentleman would look. If she was ever found out she was to set the alarm off, a GPS signal would activate and we would pull her out. And that is exactly what we intend to do."

Just as he said this they both entered one of the most complicated rooms Desmond had ever seen.

There was no luxury here, every spare inch of space was filled with electronic equipment, men and women were everywhere leaning over consoles and talking loudly to each other in quick tones. This had to be the bridge. There was a large window on the far wall and it showed that they were below water level, he could see countless marine life and rocks until they all blurred in the darkness.

He followed Louis to where Alexander was talking to one of the many technicians in the room, the man was right next to a console with a small map of the island they had just left and Desmond examined it, a red dot was blinking just a mile west of where he had been. Standing with Alexander were Claire and Thornton. The former looking as though she were on the verge of tears.

Louis approached Alexander and caught his attention. "Are we going in?" he asked.

Alexander nodded. "I'm afraid so. We don't know about her situation, but Lucy wouldn't activate the alarm unless she was in certain danger. Either they're on to her or she has already been found out. I got a report from squad command that three squads have been called in for this operation. I'm glad you planned ahead, because we need to get there fast, or all we will find is the GPS signal of a corpse."

Behind him Claire sobbed a bit and turned her back to hide it. Alexander winced and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's alright Claire, we'll get her out and she will come back unharmed I promise," he patted her shoulder softly, and turned to Louis. "make sure I keep that promise."

Louis nodded and left, Desmond jogging to keep up with his now lengthy stride. "So Claire is Lucy's mother?" he asked Louis. Louis nodded. Desmond nodded too, he'd had his suspicions and now they were confirmed. At the pace they were striding they made it in no time at all to the hangar. The squads that Louis had mentioned before were already assembled; they had formed a semi-circle around Mark who was explaining the operation to them.

Desmond listened. "…we want to hit hard, and then we want to hit harder, and we want to hit fast, and then we want to hit faster. Short busts of fire, stick with your squads and clear you targeted buildings. Do it quickly, we want to go in, get Lucy and get out again. Any questions?" Mark asked.

A man towards the front lifted his hand into the air, by his insignia he was the leader of squad 9. "We planting any charges? Blowing the building to kingdom come?" the man asked eagerly.

Mark shook his head. "No charges, there may well be innocent people working in the lower levels of that building, and we don't want them dead. They may work for Abstergo, but they might not know what it is their company does. We don't want blood on our hands. And I know Abstergo hasn't been so kind to us in the past but command likes to take the morale high ground," Mark explained. "Any more questions? No? Okay then," said Mark when no one else put their hand up.

Without further ado the squads climbed into the helicopter as it started up. Louis headed forward but didn't notice Desmond standing behind him, Mark did and tilted his head questioningly at Desmond as he walked towards him.

"I don't want to get in the way," Desmond explained. And he didn't.

"We could use you Desmond," Mark said.

"That's what I'm afraid of," muttered Desmond, but his voice was drowned out by the ever increasing sound of the helicopter starting up.

"What?!" Mark shouted, stuggling to be heard.

"Nothing!" Desmond shouted back. They both entered the helicopter and sat in empty seats. The helicopter lifted off, the ship submerging again beneath the water.

Night was approaching.

And by morning the sky would be red.

* * *

They landed a quarter of a mile away from the targeted building, so as not to alert the enemy to their incoming presence. By now Desmond had changed into black combat gear, blending in with his surroundings and his fellows. The location of the GPS was halfway up the targeted building, their entrance was a square at the corner of the building that was for helicopters. They were going to get to the top of its neighbouring building, shoot a line down there after Jeff (the marksman) had taken out all available people below. Then they were going to slide down it and enter.

It sounded easy when Mark was explaining it to him on the way there, but it took longer than Desmond had thought it would. Climbing the neighbouring building had been lengthy and exhausting work, which wasn't made any easier by Mark who mentioned that he thought that Desmond would be better at this sought of thing than all of them since Altair was good at climbing.

Desmond had frowned at Mark's words, and then he had stopped using the rope and had suddenly started using his hands and feet instead. Using the many windows and ledges on the side of the building he quickly passed everyone else and reached the top three minutes before them. Everyone had stared wide eyed at him when they came up over the edge of the building and Desmond had just shrugged, not knowing how the hell he had done it.

Then Jeff had taken a position at the edge of the building and Desmond had watched in awe as he methodically took out of the men below with great skill, using a silenced sniper rifle. Once that had been done Mark came forward with two men and drilled some device that Desmond was unfamiliar with into the top of the building, Mark aimed it and it shot out a giant metal spear with a steel cord attached to it. It struck the opposite building and Mark turned a lever on the device clockwise and the cord started to tighten until it was as taut as it would go.

One by one they grabbed the rope with gloved hands and slid down it towards the building at high speeds. Desmond felt exhilarated by the speed they were going and how high up they were off the ground. They landed as silently as they could, and spread out.

Desmond was teamed with Louis, Mark and squad 1. The other squads would provide diversions whilst they tracked Lucy's beacon. Desmond didn't know what to expect as they entered the building itself, but it wasn't anywhere near the type of situation he had been dreading. Inside it was empty, silent as a tomb.

This unnerved Desmond who had been expecting guards everywhere, but maybe security was just lax around here or maybe they depended on the guards at the landing pad entrance where they had just been. Nevertheless they proceeded, although with caution, careful to cover every doorway and check every room as they went.

Just as they were within 50 metres of where Lucy was being kept they found them.

It was a giant foyer like the kind you would find in a lush and expensive hotel, and there were guards everywhere, on the twin stairs, on the balconies and spread all over the foyer. They couldn't just rush in there shooting, they wouldn't last a minute. They would have to find another way, but as they looked around they found that the Abstergo guards had chosen a good place to defend because there was only the one entrance to there and it was through a pair of double doors.

Desmond looked at Louis with frustration, not that he was frustrated at him. "Now what?" Desmond asked. And that's when it happened; there was a loud explosion from somewhere deep within the building and the sounds reached them of multiple echoes of machine-gun fire.

"I thought I said no charges!" Mark shouted, angry that his men might have disobeyed his orders.

"It's done the trick though," Desmond remarked.

And Mark watched with Desmond as about half the guards in the foyer left in the direction of the explosion. At least four of the guards headed towards the door near where they were hiding, and a few men of Squad one got out their combat knives including Desmond, hoping for silent kills. But Mark waved them down, and Desmond saw his logic as they instead hid in a nearby store room. If they had killed the men just as they exited the doors then the guards still standing guard in there would have seen this ,and that would have made them ready and alert for an attack. And they didn't want that.

"Right," Mark addressed them, "we're going to go in there with tear gas. So I want everyone to put their gas masks on."

Everyone complied; they didn't need any further words. Unlike Desmond these men had been trained in this sort of warfare, and warfare it was.

They left the room with gas masks on, not being able to tell who was who, guns ready for any surprises. Mark crouched low, just beneath the window of the left-hand door; he quickly opened the right one and threw tear gas in. The thing immediately started smoking and they entered the foyer once it started coming through the door.

They ran in guns blazing and Desmond wasn't far behind them, taking out two stunned guards as he entered the room. Everyone else decided that rather than be stationary behind some cover they would instead move as fast as they could and take out targets as they went. The combination of tear gas, half their men having left and fast moving targets that were picking them off one by one was too much for the guards to take.

By now Desmond had stopped using his gun as the guards began taking cover; instead he ran up the right-hand side of the twin stairs and neutralized as many targets with his knife as he could. In no time the foyer was cleared and the squad began securing it as he, Mark and Louis headed off in Lucy's direction at top speed.

They found themselves in a corridor; it was like the many others they had encountered in the building previously. Except that instead of normal doors in their place were metal cell doors. Louis had a hand-held GPS device in his hand, similar to the one Desmond had had just a few hours earlier, and headed for the cell door right at the end of the corridor. He rapped on it several times and received several raps in return.

They examined the door to see if they could find a way to open it but there was nothing in sight, just a small square device which Desmond supposed would be a thumb-print recognition device. Louis gestured to Mark and Mark took out what looked like a pack of soap and laid it in Louis's hand.

"Lucy!" Louis shouted. "Stand back, we're going to blow the main locking mechanism!"

There was no reply but Desmond heard several more knocks which Louis took to be an acknowledgement. He opened the pack of 'soap' and took out an ugly orange substance which he stuck halfway up the door where the door handle would usually be.

Louis then stuck a metal pin inside it and stood well clear of the door, Desmond followed his example still curious as to what was about to happen. Once Louis was sure he was at a safe distance he took out what looked like a metal pen, he clicked the top. Firstly there was a bubbling from the orange substance and then a sharp bang as a hole three centimetres thick appeared in its place.

The door opened outwards, and there was Lucy. She was wearing the same clothes she had always worn to the office, white blouse and black skirt. The difference from her usual appearance was that the clothes were slightly dirty and ripped in several places; strands of her blonde hair had crept out of her bun causing her to look dishevelled. But most notable was the dark bruise she bore on her left cheek where she had obviously been struck.

She blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the light and Desmond leaned round to see that her cell was pitch-black and the only light in there was that which was flooding through the door.

Lucy first noticed Desmond, and she looked angry. "What are you doing here?!" She questioned him.

"Helping you escape," Desmond replied, frowning, "I'm not exactly dressed to sell cookies now am I?" he asked, angry at her tone.

"I help you escape Abstergo and what do you do? You walk right back in again. Imagine that, all that time complaining about being a 'prisoner' and you come back." she said, sounding like an angry school teacher. Desmond was using all of his resources to avoid flinching.

She looked about ready to hit him and Desmond recoiled a bit. He looked towards Louis for help and Louis complied by coming to his rescue.

"Lucy," he said, using a soothing voice, "I know you're angry, but we don't have time for this. We came here to get you out and I think that that's what we ought to be doing instead of standing here arguing all day."

Lucy still looked angry, but nevertheless nodded her agreement. Louis nodded his head in thanks and took out a small radio from his belt.

"Troy?" he called into the radio. "Troy? Are you there?" For a moment there was no sound but white noise on the other end.

Then there was a click and a voice answered. "I'm here, what'd ya need?" the voice asked.

"Lucy's been recovered. Bring the helicopter to the landing pad, us and the rest of the squads will be there shortly."

"Roger that," the voice replied. The radio clicked again and was silent.

Louis clicked it again, switching to another channel. "All units fall back to the landing pad. I repeat, all units fall back to the landing pad." There were several clicks over the line and Desmond looked at Louis questioningly. "Confirmation," he replied to Desmond's unanswered question.

Desmond nodded and they left the corridor and walked briskly back into the foyer. The squad were waiting at the top of the stairs, there guns pointed cautiously at the double door entrance at the bottom. Louis gestured for them to fall in and they complied, saluting Lucy with respect as they went. She nodded back and they set off in a defensive ring around Lucy, tracing their footsteps back to the helicopter landing pad.

Just as before all the corridors were deserted, although unlike last time Desmond didn't have an uneasy feeling as though they might be ambushed at any moment. Desmond had begun to trust his instincts and he believed that there were no surprises waiting for them on the landing pad, but that didn't mean he should drop his guard.

They managed to make their way to the landing pad unharmed to find that only one of the squads had returned. When Louis asked where the other squad were their squad leader said that they hadn't reported in yet. Louis came to talk to Desmond but his words were quickly drowned out by the fast approaching helicopter.

Once it had landed Louis jumped inside and checked the short range sensor inside it, and even over the helicopters noise Louis's cursing was clearly audible. Desmond jumped in and muttered a few choice phrases. There were four green dots on the screen which were squad 9, and nearby them were over thirty red dots. They were outnumbered at least seven to one.

Louis tapped Troy on the shoulder and signalled for him to turn the rotor blades off. He waited patiently for the sound to die down and then grabbed his radio.

"Squad 9? Come in squad 9?" Louis called over the line.

"This is squad 9! We're pinned down. Need support badly. They're shooting so much that any cover we find is soon turned to rubble or splinters. No injuries so far but we have to pull back!" A voice shouted back over the line, accompanying it was the deafening sound of many machine guns. Desmond was surprised they weren't all dead yet.

"Squad 9, I gave the order to pull out over ten minutes ago. Why haven't you complied?" Louis asked, fuming.

"We were doing just that when I decided to lay down a charge to block any pursuit. But instead of cutting them off it seems we brought all of Abstergo's security down on us!" the man shouted back.

"I told you not to lay down any charges. Because of the explosion Abstergo probably think this is a full scale attack ,and have most likely sent all armed personnel to your location! You idiot! I wanted to get in and get out, but, instead you decide to jeopardize my operation! And! Disobey a direct order!" Louis was absolutely furious, and Desmond could see why. Every second they delayed was another second that Abstergo had a chance to get Lucy back and then their operation would have been for nothing.

Louis sighed with frustration. "Lucky for you I don't want to lose three good men just because one was a fool!" With that he turned off the radio and signalled the two squads outside to form up.

He again tapped Troy on the shoulder. "Keep circling, I'll radio you when we need pickup." Troy nodded and Louis went to close the door, but Lucy pulled it back.

"You're not leaving me here are you?" she asked.

"No," said Louis, "I'm leaving you in the helicopter. And don't argue," he said when she opened her mouth to retort, "your mother would kill me if anything happened to you. Even if it wasn't my fault." The emotional blackmail had its affect and Lucy nodded reluctantly, closing the helicopter door herself. The helicopter started up again and Louis sighed as he signalled the squads to enter the building.

* * *

Louis's plan was a deadly yet simple one. They were to attack from two sides, taking the enemy by surprise and drawing enough fire away from squad 9 as possible to help them escape. Then they were to retreat and run full sprint for the landing pad.

They ran to the section of the building that squad 9 were pinned down in and found it to be a lab. They had no idea what the inside of the lab looked like but tried to find entry points. There was only one and it seemed that that was where the enemy was entering from. They split themselves up as equally as they could, and each squad took a packet of the ugly orange substance Desmond had seen Louis use earlier.

Louis got out his combat knife and started slicing strips of the substance and placed them on the wall in a tall rectangle, almost like a door. He explained to Desmond that because the wall was plasterboard and brickwork he didn't need to use as much as he did on the 3 centimetre thick metal door. "It will still go bang though" he grinned. When the squad on the outside of the opposite wall were done they signalled over the radio with two clicks.

Louis bid everyone to stand back and they pressed their backs against the wall of a nearby corridor. He pressed the pen device he had used earlier and again the substance started bubbling, this was followed by a sharp bang, which was then followed by the sound of crumbling masonry. Louis signalled Mark who was with squad 4, and with almost perfect timing they both kicked the wall where the explosives had been placed.

The walls crashed inwards, surprising the already confused guards. They hadn't expected their enemy to come through the walls. The squads burst through the gaps in the walls, MP5s blazing, flanking the guards on both sides. The guards tried to run from the onslaught of lead but were blocked by the small entrance and the rest of their security forces.

It happened in a matter of seconds, the guards fled before the military precision and training, surprise and frightened by the sudden attack. Those that did try to return fire were quickly neutralized. Soon the lab was clear, if not for the rubble of the once whole brick walls and the pile of bullet-ridden bodies lying near the door.

Squad 9 came out from their hiding places at the bottom of the lab. There weren't any major injuries, but one of the squad members had had his legs crushed by falling masonry that had been dislodged from a wall by gun fire. He'd live, with medical treatment, but for now he needed two other members from his squad to help him walk.

The fourth man in the squad came forward with a fearful look on his face; he had no hair and his appearance made him look as though he had been dragged through barbed wire, that's what Desmond thought as he counted how many scars the man had.

Louis didn't say anything except that he would talk with him later, although he did this with such an icy tone that Desmond thought that talk probably meant punch. For now they needed to move, he radioed the helicopter and they left as quickly as they could, but their pace was slowed by the squad member with the crushed leg and they had to carry him to speed up. Desmond started getting that feeling again, as though he were walking into a trap, he became ever more vigilant as they neared the landing pad.

As just as they were getting to the doors that led to the pad Desmond saw more security men run from around the corner of the left-hand corridor. Mark didn't pay them any attention; he just pulled the pin out of a grenade, held it for a while and then slid it down the corridor. As they exited onto the pad Desmond heard the explosion and quickened his pace.

By now the helicopter was already there, as they ran Louis radioed it and told Troy to start taking off. And they were forced to jump into as it started to lift. As quick as he could Desmond slid the helicopter door shut behind him, and just in time too Desmond thought as they heard thuds and the sound of ricocheting bullets from just outside it. Desmond sighed, they had done it.

As they left Desmond looked out of one of the helicopters windows.

And the rising sun glowed red.

* * *

Hope you liked my second chapter. In the next one we find out just who Alexander's organisation is. And why they need Desmond.

P.S. Feedback would be great!


	3. Revelations

**Chapter 3: Revelations**

Just like the previous journey back to the ship, it was spent in silence. When this mysterious organisation was rescuing Desmond they had been lucky to get out alive in the ensuing battle, this time though it was… pretty scary. Desmond thought that maybe the Gods had been on their side. However, just because the Gods could keep them alive didn't mean that the Gods could take care of them afterwards, even now, he watched as men sat with pale and pained faces, regretful at one they had done, and as others wretched violently out of the now open helicopter door.

He knew how they felt. He suddenly felt the bile rise in his throat and people by the open door quickly leapt aside as he spewed what felt like all the food he had ever eaten. He was spitting the last of all the liquids he had previously drank when he felt a hand heartily slapping him on the back. Desmond turned round and saw that it was Mark.

"It's the adrenaline rush," he explained, "when adrenaline gets into the bloodstream it quickly prepares your body for action in what you would perceive as emergency situations. It boosts the supply of oxygen and sugar to the brain and muscles, while suppressing your body's other concerns, such as digestion. It also suppresses pain. To a certain point. " Desmond didn't fancy listening to a lecture but he couldn't say anything as he was still throwing up.

Mark stopped patting Desmond on the back and leaned against the wall folding his arms and talking half to himself and half to Desmond. "When the adrenaline goes away your body can't handle it. Pain becomes a majority where it used to be a minority. Since your body wasn't digesting the food in your stomach while the adrenaline was pumping around your body it then proceeds to reject all the food and causes you to spew."

Desmond shook his head in curious confusion and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "But I've experienced adrenaline before though. It has _never_ made me sick."

Mark shook his head. "If its minor adrenaline like a small fistfight then you just feel a bit weak, but something major like a battle where your fear would normally be much increased the adrenaline increases its strength, and the amount of energy you spent back there would push the boundaries on any normal persons limit." He looked at Desmond suddenly. "But somehow you handled it."

That explained half of it. Although he had said it himself, Desmond had been using more than his usual amount of energy.

But then again, he hadn't felt like himself.

"Oh my God!" shouted a loud female voice from behind him. Desmond turned round and followed Lucy's gaze to his left arm. She grabbed his arm gently but he tugged it back from her grip. He immediately regretted it though as he felt an agonizing pain lance up his arm to his neck.

He looked at it more closely. The blood from what he had thought was just a deep cut was worse than he had thought.

"How in the hell did you not notice that you had been shot in the arm?!" exclaimed Mark incredulously. And Desmond could see why. When had he got shot? And how come he hadn't realised until now?

"That's going to need to be treated," said Lucy, opening a nearby locker, she took out a first aid kit. From it she took out a roll of bandages and started wrapping it around Desmond's arm. Desmond did not feel much pain as she did this because she quite gentle, but really he was not capable of feeling anything as he was numbed with shock.

Once Lucy was done, Desmond sat down again. Now that he had come to terms with having been shot he could feel the pain. He hissed sharply as it hit him and clutched the lower part of his arm. This seemed to hurt him even more and he let go quickly, for now he would just have to grit his teeth. Lucy saw his pain; she took a needle and a small bottle of anesthetic from the first aid kit. She drew the liquid into the needle and placed the tip near the gunshot wound.

As she did this Desmond noticed her expression, she looked to be in deep thought. It wasn't for the task at hand but something completely different. When she was done Desmond asked her what it was she was thinking about. "It's nothing really," she replied evasively, "just random thoughts. How's your arm?"

He could tell she was trying to get him off the topic but that just made him more curious. "Come on you can tell me," he encouraged.

She frowned a bit and looked at him; eventually she gave up trying to avoid the question and sighed. "It's nothing in particular, I'm just wondering if the fact that you can't feel your gunshot wound has anything to do with one of my theories."

Desmond pressed her. "Which theory would that be?" he asked, starting to get a little worried at the amount of effort she was using to avoid answering him.

"I will tell you later I promise," she reassured him. "But I still need to put some thought into it." Desmond wanted more from her but decided against it. She had been through a lot in the last few hours, and besides, the ship was now in sight.

By the time they landed in the ship the drugs full effects had kicked in and the pain had almost completely gone, but the drug had also left his am hanging uselessly at his side. When they disembarked the helicopter Claire rushed forward to intercept her daughter and after they had embraced took her into her care. A stretcher was called for Desmond for him to be taken to med bay. He was about to protest, saying that he could walk without help, when he felt a little faint and Louis had to help him stand.

"Anesthetic dulls the pain but it doesn't make the injury go away," he said to Desmond. "Me and Mark have to debrief Alexander on how the operation went and to get something done about squad leader Mac. But once we're done in there we'll come and see you." The stretcher had arrived, and as Desmond climbed into it he saw Mark nod to him, and then the two of them walked away.

* * *

"So once again squad leader Mac has defied orders," Alexander mused. "And once again there is nothing I can do about it." Alexander was standing by one of the walls in the metting room with his arms folded, a stony expression on his face.

Louis raised an eyebrow questioningly. "What do you mean nothing? This is the third time he has disobeyed orders. Your actions cannot be questioned if the men know that you had good reason." Louis was angry, surprised by Alexander's apparent willingness to stand idly by while one of the men under his command was disobeying him, and he let it be known by slamming his fist into the table. "Just because he's popular among most of the men and women on board this ship doesn't make him untouchable. Make an example of him," he implored desperately, "if things keep going this way people on this ship are going to start thinking you're weak and eventually Mac is going to challenge you for the right of leadership."

Alexander looked at him sharply. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't that as I walk the ship's corridors that I don't hear men whisper that I'm not the right man to lead them." He sighed slightly, but he was such a powerful man that it hardly showed. "I've already had several reports of brawls, not just in the lower deck, those for and against me. I know that Mac is not untouchable, but I can't just let him go. He'd be a potential security risk, who under the circumstances would willingly hand over information to the Templars. And unless I prove that he is a spy I'll have a revolt on my hands and unrest on my ship. And I would eventually have to deal with Mac's 'replacement'."

"You mean," Louis said, his eyes widening, "there really is a spy on the ship? And Mac's under suspicion?" Louis had always suspected Mac of malicious intent as soon as he had met him. The man was evil in its most basic form. Though he had never truly believed that any man on this ship could be a traitor, being aboard this ship required a great deal of belief. There might be unrest at the moment, but a traitor? Louis had great faith in the integrity of the crew, to him such a thing as a traitor was unthinkable.

"We managed to intercept some kind of long-range transmission coming from the lower decks," Alexander explained. "Either it's someone living down there, or someone went down there to throw us off if we ever did intercept one of the communications. So far we've come up dry." He shrugged his shoulders lazily. "Anyway I have nothing more to say on the matter. Tell me," he asked with unfeigned interest, "how was Desmond throughout the evening?"

Mark, who had been silently sitting in an armchair in the corner not paying attention throughout the conversation, was suddenly attentive. Louis understood why, they had talked about it on the way to this room and they still hadn't decided on what to tell Alexander.

"At first he was normal," started Louis. "Although as the operation progressed he sort of…changed." He chewed his cheek thoughtfully and then carried on. "It was hard to notice at first, it began with him climbing the building with his hands and feet. However, it became rather noticeable when the fighting started; when we rescued him he was capable, competent. During this evening's fight he…" Louis stopped, not being able to think of a way to describe how Desmond had been.

"He wasn't himself," Mark input, Louis nodded his agreement. "He stopped talking as much as he had before, he moved silently, with power that I didn't think he had in him. He fought better than all of us. It was scary to say the least."

Alexander looked pensive, rubbing his chin in thought while Mark made his explanation. He looked at Louis. "Do we know the cause of this change?" he asked.

Louis shrugged. "Lucy says she has an idea."

Alexander nodded. "Then I think Desmond should hear it too."

* * *

Desmond touched his arm gingerly, an hour after watching them dig around inside his arm and pull out the bullet the pain had died down somewhat. His arm was now in a sling and he was sitting on a comfy sofa inside the room that had been given to him 'temporarily'. Louis hadn't been to see him yet but Desmond knew it would be soon, he felt a little tired, but it wouldn't serve to appear before Alexander bleary-eyed and inattentive. Therefore, he would just have to wait.

He wondered why Alexander wanted to see him, was it to answer his questions, or for some other reason? But he knew that once Louis and Mark told him about his actions and behavior this evening Alexander would probably want to assess whether Desmond was a danger to the crew or not.

Still though, the whole situation made him feel a little isolated. In addition, he couldn't help but feel a bit worried as the seconds ticked by. Desmond knew he had nothing to worry about but the feeling was there all the same.

The sofa he was lying on was quite comfortable and he slid down it a little further. Today's events had left him feeling drained and fatigued, so it was no surprise that he was dozing lightly when he heard a knock on the door. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, as he walked towards the door he shook his head slightly to clear the cobwebs that had gathered there.

Desmond tuned the door handle and when he opened he found Mark standing there.

"Hey Desmond," he greeted. "I see the doctors patched you up," he said, nodding at Desmond's arm in a sling.

"Yes they're very good," Desmond agreed in a half-heartedly. This was it.

"Good, good. Everyone is ready now."

_Ready for what?_ Desmond thought as he and Mark walked along the path that lead to the meeting room. _Ready to watch me die?_ _Stop it! Don't think like that!_ Desmond thought suddenly, frowning to himself. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't quell the nagging fear that whoever this organisation was they might execute him for being unpredictable, and a liability.

But when Mark opened the door to the meeting room the expressions on people's faces were not those of murderers. No guilty or angry faces greeted him, just the faces of people who wanted to finally know what was going on. He was also surprised by the amount of faces that sat before him. This wasn't a meeting between him, Mark, Louis and Alexander. There was also Claire Mackintosh, James Thornton, the Lead Technician, John and…Lucy?! She looked better than she had before, better meaning cleaner, the blood and dirt was gone and she was wearing fresh clothes. The only evidence that remained from her capture was the bruise that she bore on her cheek.

When Desmond entered the room though all eyes were drawn to him, which made him flush and start adjusting his appearance. Nobody else seemed to notice but him so he just sat down in one of the vacant chairs.

Everyone was silent for a moment, absent-mindedly fidgeting as some of them thought of something to say, others just sat waiting for those people to say something. Finally, with much frustration and a bit of reluctance Louis got up. Everyone looked at him expectantly but he did his best to ignore them and instead looked straight at Desmond.

"Desmond," he began, "earlier today when we were in here we said that you could have your questions answered. The time for me saying 'later' is over. Ask away and we will do our best to answer." When he finished he sat back down, relieved to have done so, and everyone's gaze was now on Desmond.

Desmond didn't care though, now was the time to find out what was going on.

"Before we were interrupted," he remembered, "you were about to tell me who you guys are." He looked at Alexander expectantly, and Alexander nodded in turn. He put his hands against his knees and pushed himself up, like last time he went towards the light switch, but unlike last time, he flipped it.

The lights went off and there they were on the table and on the far side of the wall.

The symbol he had gotten to know so well over the past week, the symbol that banished his fears and filled him with hope and surprise, even though he should have expected it.

The symbol of the Hashashin.

The triangle with the curve beneath it glowed fluorescent on the table and on the wall, burning the image into his brain. After a while Alexander flipped the light switch thereby turning the lights back on making the symbols disappear. The surfaces where the symbols had been left behind no evidence that they had been there.

"I think you have your answer," Alexander said simply before sitting down. Desmond thought so too, but the answer lead to even more questions.

"But," said Desmond, puzzled, "I thought the order would have fallen apart after Al Mualim's death."

"It almost did," said Alexander. "But they were stronger than that, Altair stayed a bit for temporary leadership, but he eventually left, not being able to bear the guilt and grief of Al Mualim's death, and a council was elected. However, without solid leadership the Hashashin was no longer a force to be reckoned with. Nevertheless, they were safe for a while, everyone was afraid of upsetting the order in case Altair came for retribution. But with him gone the order couldn't take any chances, they moved headquarters and melted into the haziness of history." Desmond nodded thoughtfully to himself. That explained why no one had heard anything about the Hashashin for a long time. They had been lying low.

"But Vidic told me that for the past few months that Abstergo, and I guess the Templars, had been killing anyone who opposed them," Desmond said.

"We have spies almost everywhere," said Alexander, "but other than that we don't have any other bases of operation other than this. It's risky but if the ship does go down then a signal is automatically sent out and the rest of the order telling them to regroup." He sighed heavily. "I'm afraid the people they've been killing for the past few months have been your own."

This hit Desmond hard. "What about my-"

"We don't know anything about your family," Alexander replied to his unfinished question, "sorry Desmond." Desmond nodded, it had been a long shot, but it had been worth trying.

"What I also want to know," Desmond looked up, "is how Lucy was found out? Why did you rescue me? And what you plan to do with the Templars."

For the first time in this meeting Lucy spoke. "They way I was captured wasn't as complicated as you might think. They hadn't been onto me for months, and they weren't tipped off. It was one simple stupid mistake."

When she didn't finish Desmond frowned. "Which was?"

She looked at him. "You left the compartment door open," she simply said.

Desmond frowned, and then his eyes widened. He remembered back to when he had opened it; he had this vivid memory of it.

…_with speechless surprise he watched as the mask came out of the wall by an inch, and swung outwards like a door._

_What he saw inside made him doubly surprised, and confused. There was a small lead compartment. At the back was a retina scanner, which probably explained the light he had seen, but it wasn't that which interested him most. A 9mm Browning, complete with silencer, a combat knife, a GPS device and a phone. _

_And resting on top of them all was a letter neatly folded with the words: __To Desmond Miles__. Intrigued he took it out, opened it and read._

He remembered reading the letter, his mind occupied by it.

_Desmond didn't know what to think. But just like his ancestor Altair he didn't wait, he acted. He took the gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans as well as the combat knife. The letter he folded and put into one of the pockets, along with the GPS, the phone he held, for right now it was his most valuable weapon._

_He left the room and…_

There it was. When he had left the room, he had been so preoccupied with escaping that he hadn't thought through it all. He looked at Lucy apologetically. "I am _so_ sorry," he said earnestly. "When I left my head was spinning and in my excitement I just forgot."

Lucy nodded. "Anyone could have made that mistake," she told him, understanding in her voice. She didn't want him to think that her capture was his fault. "You had also just spent the past week inside a machine that seriously messes with your brain." However, no matter what she said Desmond still felt rather guilty. Nevertheless, he listened as she carried on. "After you had gotten away in the helicopter and it was safe to do so me and Vidic entered the lab and found the place a mess. Although Vidic may seem mad, he is also very clever, and he pieced together straightaway that you had had inside help. His suspicions were confirmed when the fingerprints and DNA evidence taken inside the compartment matched mine. He then had me taken away to that building, although not before I activated my distress beacon."

Desmond felt guilty. If only he had closed the compartment door then none of this would ever had happened. Lucy must have read his thoughts as she said, "Eventually they would have found out about me Desmond" she said, compassion in her voice, "it was better to get out now than have been shot when I wasn't looking." Again Desmond nodded as if he understood, he felt consoled but not enough to make the guilt go away.

Alexander now spoke up. "As to the other questions, now they all tie into the same thing. Why we need you and what we need to do about the Templars goes hand-in-hand. But I think we need Lucy to explain it."

Lucy nodded. "The war between us and the Templars has been going on for a while now. For a lot of it we have been on the run. However, four years back we learned that the Templars were using their branch Abstergo to develop a new kind of technology. One which used a persons DNA to go back and relive their ancestors lives through their memories."

"The Animus," said Desmond simply.

"Right," she said, nodding to Desmond. "We knew that the Templars would try to use this technology to find out where the missing Pieces of Eden resided. We also knew that they needed someone who was there, to our count and theirs there were six people who witnessed it. Malik, his four men, and Altair." She looked at Desmond when she said that name and he thought he knew why. "The names of those four men were never recorded in history. In addition, Malik's descendant died when Abstergo tried to capture him. That left you, whose ancestor did more against the Templars than anyone in Earth's history."

Lucy started pacing. "Remember when I told you that I thought Abstergo had engineered my education so as to make me desperate?" Desmond nodded, frowning. "Well they didn't, it was this organisation which manipulated events to make me look desperate. So that Abstergo would notice me and 'take advantage' of my predicament." Desmond looked around for confirmation, everyone was nodding in agreement.

"I'm surprised though," Desmond told them, "surprised that you knew about the Pieces of Eden. I thought the information had been lost."

Lucy looked uncomfortable for a moment. "We didn't know about them until eight years ago."

"Why?" asked Desmond. "What happened eight years ago?"

Lucy looked him straight in the eye. "We found one."

Desmond's eyes again widened, he had seen the type of power a Piece of Eden had over people. It had turned the whole of Masyaf into walking zombies.

Now John, the Lead Technician, spoke. "We came across it in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean; we were on the run from a couple of unmarked submarines."

"Unmarked?"

"We couldn't found out who they belonged to. They gave chase but this ship was built and designed by the best and we soon outrun them." He brought out a folder that Desmond hadn't seen before and handed it to him. Inside were several images from a computer, marking waves of some sort of energy readings, at 2:16 the level was normal. Then at 2:17 the level spiked off the charts, and then settled again at 2:18. It seems that in the space of a minute they passed over something with a great deal of energy and then carried on.

John carried on. "It was only later when one of the bridge technicians noticed that we saw the readings. We waited a day and then went back to the same location. The readings were still the same and after some deliberation, we sent a small submersible machine down there to investigate. Look at the back sheet." Desmond looked in the folder, tucked away at the back was a picture of something he would never had expected to see at the bottom of the ocean.

"That's right. A temple," John said when he saw the look of disbelief on Desmond's face. Desmond could see it in the picture, the blue of the sea, the ocean floor. And halfway embedded in it was a huge stone temple. There were other pictures as well, of rooms and passageways, but the one that interested him the most was the one of a huge empty chamber, flooded with light from the hole in the ceiling, empty except for the pedestal in the centre.

"As you can imagine we too were surprised to find a temple in the middle of the ocean," John said. "We found in the middle of the chamber and on the pedestal a small sphere inside some intricate silverwork. We thought it some worthless item that some ancients had worshipped. But after much study, and many arguments"-he looked at Lucy to prove his point before continuing-"we decided that this was a Piece of Eden. And unless we are wrong the unmarked submarines belonged to the Templars, and they also were looking for it."

"This put us back in the game," Alexander said suddenly. "We had struck a blow against the Templars. But the thing was that after much study we concluded that there was more than one, luckily, we stopped the Templars getting one early, but there were still others. We got Lucy into Abstergo and we made plans."

"Thanks to the memories we witnessed this morning both us and the Templars know the locations of the current Pieces of Eden's. However, we don't have the resources to get them and battle the Templars at those locations," said Lucy. "Our only hope is to go back, remove or possibly destroy them."

"How?" Desmond asked. Although he knew he wouldn't like the answer.

"You, Desmond," she said. "That's why we stole the animus, we may look like we have the materials but we also don't have the knowledge or expertise, sorry John," she said to John apologetically, he made a hand gesture as if her comment was okay, -"of how to build our own. But then we thought, why not take theirs? We get one free and they would have to build a new one. But that is also why we need you."

"Using the schematics for the Animus and the file you found on the Piece of Eden we believe we can combine the two and use them to make some…modifications on the Animus," explained John.

Lucy nodded. "Think about it. Its unthinkable enough to relive your ancestor's memories but what if you could go back," she looked at Desmond excitedly, "and change them.

"What?!" Desmond said, alarmed.

"The Piece of Eden's works not through the ability to control minds, as the Templars think," said Lucy. "They work how Al Mualim said they did. Through the power of illusion. You may think that is not enough," Lucy was pacing pack-and-forth as she spoke now, too much into her theory, "But! What is taste if not an illusion? One created by our brain to believe what we see and feel. What is to see, feel and _believe_, if not an illusion? The people back in Masyaf didn't follow Al Mualim because they truly believed he was their master, but because the Piece of Eden overrode their current illusion and planted a new one inside their brains."

Desmond was confused. "It doesn't control minds?"

"No," she said, having finally stopped pacing. "But it overrides their current illusion and plants whatever the controller wants. By combining the Piece of Eden and the Animus we could override the illusion of history and plant something new. Nothing major to change current events. But other things. Stop the order from almost falling apart, destroy the Pieces of Eden. Altair saw through the illusion of the Piece of Eden, but by going back using your DNA we can give him small suggestions every now and then, and then watch things run their own course." She stopped and looked at Desmond expectantly. Waiting for his input.

Desmond sighed. "What would you need me to do?" he asked.

Lucy too sighed, but with relief. "Just do what you did before. Use the Animus and witness Altair's memories. But when you plant a suggestion you will need to concentrate, and Altair will think that they are his own thoughts." She looked at Desmond, waiting for his answer.

Desmond sighed; he didn't know what to say. The last week spent in the Animus had been good and bad, but he didn't want to go through it all again, he knew that eventually he would get addicted to the rush of power that Altair held over people. The power of life and death. On the other hand, the Templars needed to be stopped, and this sounded like the only way. Not being able to make up his mind he shook his head and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Lucy, panicking slightly as he opened the door.

Desmond looked at her.

"I need to think about it."

* * *

Phew.

Sorry about the really long wait. I recently got Mass Effect for Christmas and have been playing it loads, that and I'm a bit lazy. I'm quite proud of this chapter, all the theories in this are my own, things that I was still thinking about when I started writing this story and obsessed with Assassins Creed.

P.S. Please review and offer any constructive criticisms you have.

P.P.S. The Hashashin didn't melt into history after 1191, apparently their end didn't come until 1272. However, I am by no means a historian, plus, having them 'melt' into history means I can create their past however I want. It's not as though History is copywrited.

Or is it?...


	4. Part 1: The Mission

**Chapter 4: The Mission**

**Part 1**

Once Desmond had left the room, he closed the door behind him. Then, making sure nobody else was around, he sagged against it slightly. He had been tired before the start of the meeting, only now he felt more so, this time with a mixture of despair. He rested his head against the wall for a moment, shutting his eyes tight. _What_ was he going to do? Desmond didn't want to risk going back into the Animus; a week was bad enough. And he knew that the task at hand would probably be a lot longer than a week, probably longer than a month, longer than six months, longer than a year!

On the other hand, if the Templars were not stopped then everyone on the planet would end up as mindless slaves. As much good it might do to stop wars and unite people, the downside would be that nobody would be individual anymore. Eventually he and the people on this ship would be the only ones uninfected, and even that could change if the Templars decided to hunt them down.

The obvious choice would be to risk it and to hell with the consequences. But Desmond was more than a little scared: he had been inside the Animus for only a week and had already begun to act strangely. He'd done things like climb buildings with his hands and feet, and 'done battle' with his combat knife. Those times had been strangely exhilarating, just like when Altair had done all those things, only this time the emotions weren't second hand but Desmond's own. However, all that was nothing compared to what he had just seen and heard in the meeting room for the last half an hour: both were strange and scary.

He sighed again and lifted his head off the wall, then shook it; he started walking back to his room for some badly needed sleep. It was all so much to take in at once, he thought as he passed other people in the wood paneled corridors, going about their business. He didn't like the decision before him, for whichever scenario he chose would bring tremendous repercussions.

Desmond shook his head again; it was too much to take in all at once. Like he'd said before, he'd have to think about it.

Because either decision could change the course of history.

* * *

"So," said Mark, once Desmond left the room. "How do you think he took it?"

"Judging by the look on his face," said Lucy, with a pained expression, "not very well."

Lucy fidgeted unconsciously, wondering if Desmond was in 'information overload'. Back in the lab when she and Vidic had tried to explain to him what was going on, he had been angry; but Lucy had thought that the reason behind the fury was because he thought he was being lied to, patronised, and the fact that he was being held against his will. He later learned that he wasn't being lied to, but that didn't make him any less angry. However, the anger had helped him deal with the situation, as though he had someone to blame. Now though… the situation was different.

She was brought out of her reverie when Louis said something. "Maybe he just doesn't feel like he can help," he suggested.

Mark frowned. "Isn't saving the whole of humanity from enslavement helping? What more does he want?"

"He wants to feel useful," explained Lucy, catching on. "He doesn't see being trapped in a machine for a year as useful. It would be just like before, except for we would be nice to him. I think the hardest thing for him is his distrust of us. He also knows that he doesn't have a choice in the matter because he's too valuable to let run off."

"We could give him a pension plan," Mark quipped to himself.

Lucy said nothing, but gave Mark a disapproving look. "Maybe if we made him feel useful he would be more willing to helping us," her forehead creased in thought. "But I'm afraid I can't see how to make him more useful."

"I have the perfect job for him," said Louis, rubbing his hands together.

Alexander looked at Louis in alarm. "You don't mean squad leader Mac?" he asked. "I already told you the repercussions of such actions," he said warningly.

Louis spread his hands. "I do," he admitted. "But, not in the way you think. I've got the perfect job for Desmond, and it doesn't include killing; just a little spying." He turned to John. "How long will it be before your work on the Animus is completed?" he asked.

John looked at the ceiling in thought. "At least three days," he told Louis.

"Good," said Louis, "time enough for Desmond to make up his mind and do a job which will make him feel useful," said Louis gleefully. He walked to the door, and beckoned Mark to join him.

* * *

Desmond slept restlessly, tossing and turning all night long. The little sleep he did manage to gain was filled with strange dreams.

_He was Altair, running across white sand in the bright red heat of the Holy Land, the land the crusaders called Outremer. He was running from something, but whenever he looked behind him there was nothing there. Suddenly he was somewhere else: he was now running across the rooftops of Jerusalem, and again he stopped to look behind him. Only this time there was something there: instead of nothing there was an old man on his knees, hands clasped in prayer. _

_As Altair watched, he saw another figure behind the old man._ _The white robed figure was running with a look of arrogance on a face shadowed by a white hood__. Once the figure reached the old man, he smiled, and shoved the old man to his knees and thrust a hidden blade into the old man's neck._

_The figure looked up, and with horror Altair__ realised__ he was staring at himself from across the rooftops._

_The figure retracted his hidden blade, folded his arms, and looked at Altair._

"_The answer is right in front of you," the figure smiled with malice._

_Altair ran, ran as fast as he could towards the edge of the rooftop, but as he ran the length of the rooftop seemed to stretch before him, causing the distance to increase. Then the edge came close all of a sudden, but he wasn't ready for it. As he prepared to jump he knew he was too late and he stumbled. He fell off the roof; he tried to grab the edge but could not stop himself from falling into darkness._

_He landed on his shoulder with a thud._

_He rubbed the area, but found that it didn't hurt at all. He looked around him and saw that he was in a small room draped with red curtains. The scent of incense filled the air. As Altair studied the room, his eyes were drawn to just one thing._

_In the middle of the room was a young woman; she seemed about his age and was a beautiful dark-haired woman, dressed in red and gold. He got up and walked towards her. As he approached her, she turned round and she fixed upon him her bright green eyes. _

_Altair was about to ask her something; he didn't know what. But she stopped him, putting a finger to his lips._

"_The answer is right in front of you."_

_She leaned forward and kissed him._

_Altair looked in a mirror on the wall behind her, but was too late to see the knife raised high in her hand._

Desmond woke with a gasp, the images of the dream receding to the corners of his mind. He found himself drenched in sweat, so he got up from the bed, leaving a dent in the covers. He looked at the clock on his bedside table; it read 8:18am. He felt too awake after that dream, and he got up knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep again. Rubbing his eyes, he headed towards the bathroom for a shower.

When he was done, Desmond got to thinking about the dream. Unlike his other dreams, he hadn't forgotten it. Instead it stayed inside his head almost like… almost like a memory. It was strange; in the week he had been captured he had had few dreams involving Altair, and when he had they had been from his point of view.

However, this dream had not been from his point of view: rather, it had been from Altair's. That by itself was weird; you don't usually have dreams from other people's points of view. Unless this wasn't his dream, but Altair's. But that made no sense; it just made it all the more confusing. Why would Desmond be having Altair's dreams?

Unless…

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a sharp knocking on his door.

"Just a minute," Desmond called loudly.

Not wanting to wear his old clothes, he opened the nearby wardrobe and found some fresh ones. He dried off and put them on; for some reason they were the same ones as before: blue denim jeans and a white hooded jumper. It seemed that he had everything provided for him. They had planned this, just like before.

When he was done dressing he went over to the door an opened it; finding outside an impatient Mark pacing in the corridor.

"You took your time," he said, dragging Desmond into the corridor with him.

"Hello to you too," replied Desmond, annoyed. "It's not like I knew you were coming," He closed the door. "Speaking of which, why are you here?"

Mark shrugged. "Louis will explain everything to you when we meet him."

Desmond frowned; he should have known. Only Louis would order him around like this. Desmond would have ranted and raved to Mark, but, then again, he didn't particularly trust Mark all that much either. So far, Desmond had done nothing but their bidding ever since he had been 'rescued'. Truly, the only person he felt he could trust around here was Lucy, and even that admission was difficult.

Maybe if he spent more time in the Animus he wouldn't have to be around them all the time. Thinking that brought a small smile to his face.

Desmond and Mark had entered a corridor Desmond had never noticed or been in before. Just how big was this ship? Desmond didn't know where he was, which would prove annoying if he needed to escape for some unforeseen reason.

The corridor was filled with many doors, but Mark seemed to know which one he was looking for and opened one near to him. Half entering, he beckoned Desmond to follow. Desmond did so reluctantly, closing the door behind them both.

The interior of the room was bare; nothing but dry walls and a bland carpet. There were few chairs inside the room, and Louis was sitting on one of them against the far wall.

"Desmond!" he greeted. "How have you been, did you sleep well?"

Desmond was seething, but he hid it and just settled for eying Louis coldly.

"Actually, I slept terribly," Desmond responded. "So, as you might imagine, I'm slightly irritable at the moment. And having someone drag me here at your 'request' hasn't helped. I'm not the type of person who likes being called upon."

Louis winced, which made Desmond smile with satisfaction.

"I apologise for that. The reason I '_requested_' you here," he said, "is because we need your help."

Desmond smiled wickedly. "Well, this is a change. Because usually it's me who is the helpless one," he said, not caring; he felt bored on this ship and would die of it if he didn't find something to do. "What do you need?" he asked, leisurely sitting down in one of the vacant chairs.

Louis lowered his head, but Desmond was still able to catch the slight frown on his forehead and the rolling of his eyes.

"First things first," he said. "Do you remember squad leader Mac?"

Desmond looked at the ceiling for a moment. "You mean the guy who decided to bomb Abstergo and almost got his whole squad killed in the process?" he said after a while.

"Yes," Louis answered. "Only this wasn't his first offense. He's tried this two times before, and during both operations he nearly got his squad killed. The thing is, his men don't care: they're willing to die for him. And that is the real problem."

Desmond shrugged. "So what do you need me to do about it?"

"Well," Louis said, "the thing about it is that Alexander can't get rid of him. We can't just fire the man, even though we have enough reason to. But if we get rid of him he would be a potential security risk; he's lived on this ship for several years and if we just 'chucked' him out he would be happy to help our enemy." Louis got up off his chair and began to pace, hands clasped. "That isn't the real problem though. The real problem, is that Mac intends to cause an uprising among the crew. We have good reason to believe that he is a spy, sent here to stir things up. And although you may not want to admit it, humanity needs us to fight against those who want to enslave them."

Desmond was getting impatient now. "I still don't see what this has to do with me," he said.

Louis nodded to Mark at this point, and Mark took the hint.

"Mac's planning something," said Mark. "We don't know what, only that it will probably involve an uprising. We have tried several times to tail him and get some proof as to what he's up to. But, either the men couldn't get close enough—" he looked at Desmond "—or they were killed." He shrugged slightly, indicating that he didn't know who had killed them, or why.

Desmond's eyes widened. Mac was obviously planning something big. Otherwise, why go to so much trouble just to cover his tracks?

"So," said Louis, "you can see why we need your help. If any of Mac's men tries to stop you, then you would have no trouble taking them out—especially with Altair's reflexes."

Desmond frowned. Had he heard him right? "Did you just say _Altair's_ reflexes?" he asked.

Louis didn't blink. "No," he said. "What I actually said was: 'especially with _your_ reflexes."

Desmond's frown deepened as he looked down; he did not see the covert glances the other two exchanged. He could have sworn Louis had said…

"Anyway," said Louis, cutting off Desmond's thoughts, "I've told you all I can about Mac's intentions. Now are you going to help us find out what his plan is?"

Desmond shrugged, and nodded. "Yes," he said.

Louis sighed with relief. "Mac spends all of his time on the lower decks; it gets so crowded down there that it's the perfect place for him to do his work without being caught. I'd tell you what to do but you probably know more about how this is played than I do. So, good luck."

And with that he shook Desmond's hand. Desmond nodded his thanks and left.

As soon as the door had closed behind him Mark let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "That," he said, "was close. You really slipped up there; nice job hiding it though. He probably thinks he imagined it now."

Louis shook his head. "He has a problem trusting us, and with good reason. That sentence is going to be playing over and over again in his head. The real problem is how long it will be till he figures it out."

Mark stared after Desmond.

"I guess we'll just have to find out."

* * *

Well, some of you might be wondering when Altair is coming into the story, it should be...soon. Thanks go out to my immensely helpful Beta reader, who pointed out my mountain of mistakes. Stay tuned and feel free to review!


	5. Part 2: The Plan

**Chapter 5: Answers**

**Part 2**

Desmond spent the rest of the morning exploring; attempting to memorise the many corridors on the upper decks as he walked through them. He had initially thought before that the ship was more than an office building than a submersible vessel, and he soon found out that he was right.

Each section of the upper decks was sorted by departments: there were four in total, and each had two floors. The section to the northeast, north, of course, being the front of the ship, was devoted to Research and Development, which studied weaponry and technology. The northwest section was given to Finance, which Desmond found out, was in charge of many fake businesses and monitored stock that they had in companies.

Desmond had been surprised by this discovery, because those departments are normally found in office buildings. But where else would they get the money from? Maybe he should stop thinking about the place as a base and more like a business.

The section to the southeast belonged to Personnel, with another business-sounding job: taking care of its employees. The southwest section… Desmond hadn't been allowed in there; it was guarded by armed personnel. When Desmond tried to go in there they blocked his entrance. Desmond had made a note to visit it later.

Only when he had explored and familiarized himself with the upper decks did he descend to the lower ones. The first thing he thought when he had arrived was: so this is where the ship disappeared! Because the lower decks looked like how the inside of a ship should.

Unlike the upper decks the lower parts of the ship had no wood-panelled corridors; its bad regular metal bulkheads, painted white. With a bit of questioning Desmond had been able to glean that the upper decks had the same 7-inch armour as the lower decks. "But you just can't tell upstairs, wut' wid' all the fancy decoratin'," had been one passing crewman's comment.

The lower decks was also where the torpedo bays were, but once again Desmond wasn't allowed in there. Desmond didn't like being told what he could and couldn't do, but he could see the reasoning behind it. There was a section in the southeast which was like the upper decks, as they both had desks and computers, but the similarities stopped there. That section was Maintenance, and it was busy as hell.

It was as he was leaving Maintenance that he saw him: Mac. Desmond only noticed because people were giving him a wide berth, making him easy to spot. He walking alongside another man, who had more of a military look about him than that of a worker. He had short, black, crew-cut shaven hair, and was well-muscled. People too were giving him overly ample space, and not just because he was with Mac.

At first Desmond did nothing; he had frozen to the spot, surprised to have found Mac so easily. But he soon shook himself out of it. He didn't try to get close enough to hear anything they might have been saying; instead, he kept his distance and began trailing the pair as they 'made their rounds'.

For the rest of the day Desmond stalked them; staying the same amount of distance away from Mac and his accomplice. Following, blending in with the constant crowd of people, trying to anticipate where Mac was going, he sometimes changed course suddenly, probably in an effort to throw off anyone 'stupid' enough to try and follow him. Desmond soon came to be annoyed by his hooded jumper. Sure, it kept his face hidden, but the cleanliness of the white fabric stood out among the surrounding greased-stained clothing. He made a mental note to try and get the thing dirty.

Over the course of that day, and the next—for Desmond had decided to make his move on the third day—Desmond found that Mac followed a certain pattern:

First, he would meet his accomplice at an elevator to the northeast. Each day a different man would be their lookout, and whilst waiting for him, they talked. Once the man had arrived they would move on to do their rounds of all their pre-arranged meetings.

Second, Mac and company would pay a visit to the nearby infirmary, which was closest, where they spoke with a white- coated doctor. The doctor nodded to Mac's questions, which, annoyingly, Desmond couldn't hear.

Third, Mac would take a trip to the armoury. Once there, Mac's accomplice would take over and ask the questions. He'd examine a clipboard and tick things off, before checking over some of the weaponry and moving on.

Lastly, they would meet with several men, whom—by studying their uniforms—Desmond discovered, were the commanding officers of vital ship sections, such as the torpedo bay, and curiously enough, the 'Overseer of Alarms' technician officer. Desmond made a note to ask Louis what it was he did, although he had a pretty good idea himself.

After this, they retired to a small hallway in-between two rooms. This was the real interest to Desmond, for Mac had two men guarding the entrance and blocking people from entering it. This was the place Desmond really needed to get to, but he knew that he should probably go over his findings with Louis.

And that was what Desmond was currently doing on the upper decks: looking for Louis. As of yet he had been unsuccessful, not willing to stop and ask random people for directions.

It was during his lengthy search that he accidentally bumped into Lucy.

"Oh, sorry," he apologised. "I didn't see you there."

"No worries," she said breathlessly. She looked a lot better than the last time Desmond had seen her; in fact, the bruise on her cheek had almost disappeared. "What are you doing wandering the corridors?"

"Why?" he asked, suddenly angry. "Am I supposed to be confined to quarters?"

"No." She huffed in exasperation. "Although confining you to your room would make you easier to track down," she added.

"Track down…?"

"For the past two days you've been missing from your room and the upper decks entirely," she explained. "What have you been doing?" Desmond felt small; all Lucy need do was shine a desk lamp in his face and it would be proper interrogation.

"Well, I was—"

"Never mind," she said, holding up a hand to stop him. "I needed to talk to you; that's why I've been looking for you." She took a breath, preparing herself to say something to him.

"Louis!" Desmond called. He had just spotted him as he rounded the corner of a corridor. "Sorry Lucy," said Desmond, "we'll talk later."

With that said, Desmond jogged to catch up with Louis, leaving a very annoyed Lucy behind.

"How goes it, Desmond?" Louis asked as they walked.

"Good." Desmond looked around. "More importantly: good enough."

Louis gathered his meaning and, also looking around, proceeded to check whether one of the nearby rooms was occupied. He found an unlocked one, and after checking found that no one was inside it. He dragged Desmond inside, and turned the lock inserted in the door knob.

Louis rounded on Desmond. "What have you got?"

Desmond recited everything he could think of. Some of it he already knew, such as checking the infirmary and the meetings. What he didn't know about, was the accomplice Desmond had seen with Mac, and their private discussions in the deserted hallway in-between two rooms. But Louis was more interested in the unknown accomplice.

"What did he look like," demanded Louis.

Desmond thought back, and described him. "Military-looking, but other than that nothing else really springs to mind, but people seemed afraid of him that's for sure."

"Anything else?" asked Louis, not finding the description helpful enough.

"Oh," said Desmond, thinking harder back to yesterday, when the man had held open a door for Mac. "He has a tattoo on his right forearm—sort of like a snake wrapped around a sword or something."

Louis snapped his fingers suddenly in triumph, and then just as suddenly he looked downcast.

"What is it?" Desmond said.

Louis shook his head slightly. "The man you just described is Daniel Bridges," he sighed.

"So…?" asked Desmond, wanting to know what was wrong.

"Daniel Bridges is Military Overseer of all the armouries on this ship. He is in direct control of all the weaponry on board. If Mac were to cause an uprising amongst the crewmembers he would be able to arm all of Mac's supporters—"

"—and leave those loyal to Alexander without weapons," finished Desmond, catching on to the seriousness of the situation. "Basically it would be a slaughter. You have to admit, Mac knows what he's doing. Do you know what the Overseer of Alarms does?"

"Why?"

"He was one of the men Mac met with."

Louis sighed again.

"What now?" asked Desmond.

"The Overseer of Alarms is just that; he controls whether the alarms go on or not. If someone is attacked and they press the alarm on the lower decks, the overseer is the one who decides whether or not to let it sound on the upper decks. The uprising would start and no one on the upper decks would have a clue as to what was going on!" Louis slammed his fist into the table at the seeming hopelessness of the situation.

Desmond uttered a few choice phrases, and then headed towards the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Louis suddenly.

"To kill him," replied Desmond.

"No, no, no. We're not killing him." And when Desmond made to argue, Louis said: "Not _yet_, anyway. Listen, we got the permission to do this under the condition we don't kill Mac. It would have consequences. But I think the only thing we can do is arrest Bridges. Alexander will believe me if I name him, and give him proof too. Here," he said, handing Desmond a small tape recorder from his trouser pocket. "Use this. Get it back to me. Just get some evidence against Bridges; Mac won't look after him once he's been apprehended because we'll have revoked his control clearance. Getting proof that Mac is planning an uprising isn't enough; we can't take care of him until we prove his connections to the Templars."

Desmond nodded his way through Louis' explanation and, even though he hated to admit it, knew that Louis was right. "Okay," Desmond agreed, "But the problem is that we need to do this fast. Can you have people move in as soon as Alexander is proven?"

Louis nodded. "Not a problem. But it can't be done right there and then, Alexander wants to see the proof before he makes his move. But just in case Mac moves his plan forward, he going to send Bridges up here to get ready, so I'll ask Alexander to have guards waiting to grab him as he exits the elevator just in case," Louis reassured him.

By the tone of Louis' voice, Desmond could tell he was being dismissed. He nodded to Louis and left through the door. As he walked past the place where he had met Lucy earlier, Desmond paused, wondering if he should go and look for her. He shook his head, the evening was wearing on, and he wanted sleep.

He couldn't afford to be tired in the morning. Any sort of mistake could cost him his life.

* * *

Desmond woke earlier than usual the next morning. Unlike the previous two nights, last night's sleep had been full and refreshing; rather like a good breakfast before a long day. He spent the rest of the morning thanking of a plan to bring Bridges down.

In the short amount of time that Desmond had learned of Bridges identity Desmond had found himself loathing a man he had never met. Mac was a monster, but Desmond had asked Louis, for Bridges files, and what was on those files shocked him.

Desmond had expected a file similar to that of Mac's, but it was quite the opposite. Bridges used to work is the S.A.S, but left after a mission had gone south. It seems the reason Louis had been hit so hard mentally and emotionally was because Louis was the one who had discovered him helping a girl who was being attacked by three young men. Bridges had taken care of them, and taken the girl to her home.

Louis had watched this and thought him a good candidate to join the organisation, and Bridges, having no job, had agreed. He had started out well, well enough to be in charge of weaponry on board the ship. The deserved a great amount of responsibility and respect.

But what angered Desmond so much was the fact that Bridges had changed his beliefs from peace to death and war. Bridges had used to believe in helping the helpless, and now he would be the one creating the helpless. Mac may be a monster, but in Desmond's eyes Bridges was worse. Desmond would take joy in bringing him down..

He put on the same jumper as he had yesterday—the one now smeared grey with a mixture of dirt, grime and grease. As he left his room and made his way to the elevator Desmond could not help but feel both excited and apprehensive: what if he was killed by these men? But what if he was able to discover what it was that Mac and Bridges were planning? Maybe he would be able to find out any future plans of Mac's.

He was careful not to let too many people see him as he exited the elevator on the lower decks. It wasn't essential to his plan, but he didn't want anyone to tip Mac off that he was coming.

The main objective of this plan was to listen in on Mac's private talk with Bridges. But that didn't mean that he couldn't do anything else.

Desmond's first plan of action was to wait in the vicinity surrounding the elevator, for the man who would be looking out for Mac today, he had decided last night that he couldn't kill or knock the guards unconscious because it would arouse Mac's suspicion. So why not be one of the guards themselves?

Mac himself was standing with Bridges, and both were killing time by talking animatedly about something.

Desmond didn't know who today's guard would be, so he had to be careful and keep an eye out for anyone walking towards Mac and Bridges. Then he spotted him: a man with blonde hair stepped out of one of the section offices at the other end of the area, the man looked around, and spotted Mac. Mac himself didn't spot his lookout, as he was busy talking with a passing technician; which was lucky for Desmond.

Desmond immediately made his way to the man, cutting through the crowd before him. Once Desmond reached the stranger, he grasped the man's arm. The man looked at Desmond in surprise, finally noticing him.

"Yes?" the man asked warily, looking in quiet outrage at the hands grasping his arm.

"I need to talk to you," said Desmond, dragging the man into a nearby storeroom.

"Yes, what is it?" the stranger asked, yanking his arm from Desmond's grip.

"Sorry about this," Desmond replied. He drew back his fist and punched the man full on in the face. The man flew back, his head smashing into the wall with a crack, the trauma to his brain knocking him unconscious.

Desmond got to work quickly, taking his greased-stained jumper off. Luckily, the man was about the same build and height as him, and Desmond changed into his clothes. When he was done, he found a coil of wire found on one of the storerooms shelves, and tied the man up with it.

Desmond dragged the now bound and unconscious stranger into the storeroom's closet and left. He made straight for Mac and Bridges, weaving his way through the large crowds of people that inhabited the area. This part of the plan relied on Mac not recognising him. If this part failed, then the Desmond's work over the past couple of days would have been for nothing.

As he got closer, Desmond felt himself start to sweat: this was it.

Also, he could hear them speaking. "…well, if so, then we'll need to get Jenkins to do it," Mac was saying. When he spotted Desmond, he turned around. "Ah, there you are," Mac said. "Did George send you?"

Desmond nodded, afraid that speaking might somehow give him away.

"Good," Mac said, turning around. He stopped suddenly, turned back, and examined Desmond closely. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

"No," denied Desmond, careful to keep his face lowered.

Mac shrugged. "Oh well." Desmond released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Now, you don't need to know anything specific about your job," Mac told Desmond, "so just follow us and keep an eye out for anyone or anything suspicious. If you do… see that man over there?" He pointed and Desmond saw a man dressed in a black t-shirt and blue jeans leaning against the wall, seemingly doing nothing. "Tell him and he'll take care of it."

Desmond nodded his acknowledgment. Mac beckoned him to follow; Bridges falling into line with him, and they were off.

Mac went through his normal routine, visiting the different sections of the lower decks. And all the while, Desmond pretended to be keeping an eye out for anything suspicious, but he was really trying his hardest to listen to everything Mac and Bridges were saying.

They spent most of the time arguing over when they were going to put their 'operation' into action, and Desmond was pretty sure that by 'operation' they meant their uprising. Mac kept arguing that he wanted it over and done with: that he had a deadline. But Bridges kept arguing that he needed more time to persuade some of his men.

This information wasn't really of any use to Desmond, but the visits and the meetings made him realise just how much of the ship was against Alexander.

His regular visits to the infirmary, for example. It seemed that Dr. Greenburg, the doctor in charge, had promised his support to Mac when the fighting started. Any of Mac's injured were to receive medical treatment wherever and whenever it was needed, and to kill any of Alexander's wounded that somehow made their way to one of his subordinates. As seemingly cruel as the doctor was, it was mostly about the money for him. And the reputation he would gain by helping Mac in his 'revolution'.

The visit to the armoury was to check their latest stock of weaponry. The overseer, Captain Adams, had been complaining to the other armouries on the upper decks that they had been running low on ammunition and weapons. To keep him happy, they had sent many of their weapons down to the lower decks, which meant more weapons for Mac to arm his followers with, and less for any of Alexander's loyalists. Captain Adams' reason for this was that he had been passed over for promotion several times, all it took to change his loyalty was a promise from Mac to promote him to Major.

He also found out that all the high officials that Mac had been meeting with had a common purpose: to draw as many of the upper decks squads, soldiers and security guards down here. Mac's men would be armed and ready to thin out the already outnumbered opposition. The Overseer of Alarms was to turn off the security system altogether: he had even managed to get a few of the upper decks automated defence systems to activate, such as the upper deck nerve gas which would usually be used against enemy boarders once all personnel had evacuated to the lower decks.

It seemed that when Mac decided to revolt, the attack would be over before it had even begun. If things went as smoothly as Mac planned, not a single shot would be fired—at least not by any of Alexander's men. _You have to hand it to Mac_, Desmond thought, _he knows how to plan_.

After this was done, Desmond followed Mac and Bridges as they made their way to the now familiar hallway spot in between two rooms. Ironically enough, Desmond was told to patrol just outside for any spies…despite the fact that he was one.

Once they had gone down the alleyway, Desmond looked around to make sure no one else was about, and took out the small tape recorder from his pocket. Slowly, making sure he wouldn't be heard, he crept his way to the edge of the alleyway and switched it on.

He just hoped it would be able to pick up the voices coming from the depths of the space between the two rooms.

"…whether or not we can agree on a particular date," said Bridges voice. "At least we agree it will be soon."

"It would be even sooner if you didn't keep arguing with me about the date," said Mac's irritated voice. "I don't like people messing up my timetable!"

"Don't forget, _Squad Leader_ Mac," said Bridges icily, reminding Mac that he outranked him, "that it's me who made most of this possible. I'm the one who arranged and persuaded all the officials and overseers to cooperate with 'your' plan. I have done most of the leg work. Let's just be clear: you are the main figurehead of this entire operation, but I am the one who has done most of the work. And don't you forget it!"

Desmond heard a sudden rustle and thud suddenly come from the alleyway, followed by a grunt of pain. Desmond looked around the corner quickly, and was able to catch a peek of Mac holding Bridges against the wall, forearm pressed close to Bridges' throat.

"And don't you forget," Mac said calmly. Desmond could almost see the mad smile on Mac's face as the man continued speaking, "that you are nothing but a tool! One that I have used to its full extent and usefulness. And if you don't like it: Tough! If you don't help me it will mean you losing out on becoming Commander of the armed forces on this ship; a post you have been after for years!"

There was another grunt of pain, and Desmond thought he could hear Mac releasing his grip on Bridges. Bridges was defeated; Desmond didn't need to see it, but Bridges had tried to out-muscle Mac, and had failed.

After that, they spoke a bit more about tactics and where to focus their attacks. When they came out of the hallway, Desmond was dismissed by Mac and told to forget anything and everything he might or might not have heard.

Desmond left, clutching the tape recorder in his hand.

He just hoped the contents within were enough.

It was time to end this before it started.

* * *

Sorry about the really long wait, the cable broke for my laptop so I had to redo a lot of this chapter from scratch. Hope you enjoyed it, if not, then go to hell! Just kidding... I do that sometimes...


	6. Anger

* * *

Well... how long has it been.

As I write this I can feel myself inwardly flinching. Partly from fear that this chapter may not live up to your expectations, partly from the fact that's its been about a year since I last wrote, and partly because this is a test to myself that I don't want to fail. So yes, this mean I'm going to be writing again, I found the secret to writer's block that never seemed to work before because I didn't believe it. 'Force yourself to just sit down and write, the writing creates the mood to write'. So this story is back, with some changes. Altair will soon be here. My style has changed a lot, but you may or may not notice or care, we'll see. On with chapter 6.

* * *

**Chapter 6:**

** Anger**

Desmond hurried along the ships corridors, sweat creeping down his spine, as if he was afraid everyone knew he had the proof to an uprising in the pocket of his jeans. What he had learned from the conversation he had witnessed only minutes ago between Mac and Bridges was monumental.

This evidence he carried would be enough to stop the revolt dead in its tracks, and tip the balance of power in Alexander's favour, which as Desmond saw was desperately needed. When it seemed like the entire ship was against Alexander, Desmond had thought it was an exaggeration, but after looking at all the facts it was closer to the truth than he'd first realised.

Considering the treatment of the lower decks Desmond could understand why a lot of them would be against him, they would think that once the uprising was over they would be on top, or at least on equal terms with those above them. But it was those on the upper decks that puzzled Desmond, surely living in the 'luxury and power' domain of the ship would make them happy with their leader, or at least content?

Or maybe it was the luxury and power that had been Alexander's mistake all along, on the lower decks it bred jealousy, on the upper decks the outcome was greed. Pure and simple. Men who originally had nothing, men like Daniel Bridges, had been given a taste of what power was, and wanted more. And who wouldn't want to be the leader of one of the most ancient, deadly, and wealthiest organizations in the world?

Desmond wouldn't that's for sure, this uprising was evidence enough of how hard it was to lead men, to get blamed for everything that went wrong, and never for anything that went right, people didn't realise that just because Alexander was in charge didn't change the fact that he was human.

Desmond shook his head; it was good to be King, except for the ignorant and ungrateful.

He made his way towards the room they had met in previously (Louis had said to meet him there as soon as he was done), inside he found Louis, as ever Mark was present also, both wore hopeful expressions as he came into the room.

"Well?" said Louis, his features looking ready for either disappointment or success.

"I have it," said Desmond, a small triumphant grin plastered to his face: his part of this mission would soon be over. He would be happy to watch its consequences.

"Hand it over then," demanded Louis; Desmond noted tenseness in his body language. Desmond tugged the tape recorder from his pocket, and threw across the table to his comrade. Louis turned it on with a sense of urgency, and the static that preceded its contents readied the atmosphere.

Even though Desmond had already heard the tape's contents firsthand, he had been too excited before to have properly paid attention. This time around though, his findings were not met with satisfied glee; his surroundings were somber enough for him to truly recognize the full extent of the tape's meanings.

It was Louis' face that said it all; Mark stood off to the side, a solid force that wasn't bothered by the world around it, but as he listened his reactions showed that that force was shaken, and not just by anger. Nevertheless, it was Louis that evoked the core emotion of anger and betrayal that they all felt. He was its personification. The longer the tape's traitorous list went on the more Louis' face clouded, his teeth clenched together, his hands held the table on which the tape recorder rested like a vice, his knuckles white and cracking, his brow low over his eyes, and his eyes spoke volumes of all the murders they promised.

When Desmond had first seen Louis and Alexander interact he had seen hints of a close friendship and camaraderie between the two men that spoke of many years together built on trust, truth and laughs. But what was written in Louis' eyes spoke of many years of a love where one of the two would gladly die to preserve the other. And this was how Louis would show it, with his actions.

Louis' hand slammed into the table with a thump, a single blow, and though the damage was one-sided, Desmond would have rather have been the broken hand. The silence that succeeded the blow was of frozen thought, no one moved until Louis spoke.

"They will _not_. _Get away_. With_ this._"

Louis looked up and noticed Desmond and Mark as if seeing them for the first time in his life. He shook his head and when he straightened he was the again the disciplined commander. "Alexander needs to hear this," he said, his features sad. He headed for the door with purposeful strides, Desmond and Mark followed wordlessly.

They swept through the corridors of the ship like gas, their faces, moods and attitudes invoking curiosity wherever they went. They did not care about the looks they attracted, the whispers not heard, all they cared about was their setting things right; and their definition of right didn't agree with their enemies.

They came upon Alexander's quarters fast, Desmond hadn't been here yet, though he had passed it a few times on his explorations of the ship. Louis came all the way up to the door, a force to be recognised; he raised his hand to knock and... nothing... just nothing.

He turned around and said softly, his eyes downcast, "I don't know if I'm ready to do this."

Desmond was slightly startled, but not surprised, considering all of his earlier assumptions, while Louis would wish to bring the traitors to justice, and bring the issue to Alexander's attention, the man didn't know if he could walk up to his closest friend and say: 'They betrayed you, didn't I tell you so?' Louis was angry, angry at those who would betray their organisation and betray his commanding officer, a man he'd been through thick and thin with, but he was also scared, scared of how his friend would react, scared that he might blame him for bringing him this bad news.

Mark cleared his throat. "It has to be done Louis, not just for you or this organisation, but for him."

It was what Louis needed to hear, he nodded his head at Mark, grateful for his reason, his fears may not have been banished, but they were allayed. He turned back and knocked on the door quickly, as if afraid his courage would fail him.

The door was soon opened by Alexander, standing tall. The leader's expression showed that he was expecting them. He took one look at their faces and knew why they were here.

* * *

Alexander's quarter's were fine, not gaudy nor rich, his subtle blend of dark reds, light browns, and creams spoke of a man with a comfortable taste, Someone who didn't like everything to be extreme, but wished to be satisfied and above all comfortable.

But Right now, comfort was in short supply.

Desmond adjusted his balance by resting his weight on his other leg, a movement that had been repeated several times, a testament to how long he'd been in that position. Surveying the room again he tried to discern who would make the next move.

Mark leant against the far wall to Desmond's left, waiting like him, but really it was Louis and Alexander who mattered, both men sat at the table, staring at the tape recorder, unable to meet each other's eyes. As the tape had continued its course, spewing its secrets the three men who had brought Alexander the news had to then suffer the punishment of seeing his reaction.

At first he had noted down the suspects implicated in the plot, not with eagerness but automatically, his features expressing surprise when an unexpected name came up, and nodding to himself at an expected name. However, as the list wore on and many more names were exposed, men and women the likes of Daniel Bridges, he face fell, and his once large frame seemed to recede slightly in on itself as though to protect him from harm, a movement that Desmond sadly thought was unbecoming of him.

Now they sat or stood, in complete silence, hardly fidgeting lest that silence be broken and reality come forth.

However, Desmond couldn't take it much longer.

"So," he said, his voice broken. He cleared his throat and tried again. "So, what happens now?"

Mark looked at Desmond, but otherwise gave no reaction; Louis shook himself and tore his attention away form the recorder onto Alexander. Alexander didn't react at all.

"Arrest them all."

Desmond turned his head sharply, he felt his neck crick but ignored it. It was Louis who had spoke, Desmond could see that the man had rearranged his mood from desolate to determined, the light in his eyes was evidence enough.

Alexander turned to Louis, his face the same picture of hurt betrayal that he had worn for the past decade of minutes, and in return, Louis crossed the table and grasped his leader, friend, and comrade's shoulders. "Arrest them all," he said. "End it now before it starts. Make changes, be a better leader. Not for us—not for the people on this ship—but for yourself. You have the vision," Louis was now in his element, his belief in Alexander was floating to the surface, "and the courage, and the power and prowess to do all you dreamed with this organisation and more. With you, I believe we can win, and I'm sure that many of those close to you do as well. Those that aren't, like the _bastards_ on the lower decks, they just don't know you. Do this, and give them the chance to."

Louis rested on the chair next to Alexander, and didn't leave his leader's eyes once, after that display Desmond would have been more than a little embarrassed, but Louis stayed firm; Desmond admired Louis's ferocious loyalty and his strength to say what he felt and thought.

Now all eyes were on Alexander; he looked at Louis, and the rest of them, and what he saw must have reassured him, given him hope, for he reached over to his table's comm system and pressed the speed dial.

* * *

Just twenty minutes after he pressed the button, a plan that was hastily thrown together was now being executed.

Captain Adams, the man bitter at his lack of promotion, stopped by an alley on the lower deck as his name was called out, and was hauled into the dark space and thrown against the wall by a security team and forcibly taken away, no one saw or heard a thing. Dr. Greenburg was called to his superior's office; his smug aura was soon smashed as he was led away by a similar security team under charges of treason. Daniel bridges was making his way to his own quarters, surrounded by loyal men, Desmond came upon them, alone, and arrested Bridges, leaving his mean groaning or unconscious on the floor. The Overseer of Alarms had his hip-flask spiked, and Mark jokingly took him away on his shoulder, apparently to help him home.

Other military personnel implicated or suspected of being in the plot were arrested in groups or nabbed like Captain Adams, while the doctors and scientists were arrested similarly to Greenburg.

And throughout it all, oblivious to the momentous events happening outside his barracks; Mac sat untouched.

* * *

Desmond came back to Alexander's quarters, a small smile now attached to his mouth. He opened the door to find the absence of Mark and the appearance of Thornton, the bodyguard. Thornton and Louis were debriefing Alexander on the operation.

"… Most were taken without a fight," said Louis.

"Hardly any struggled," threw in Thornton.

They all looked up at Desmond entered. "Bridges has been taken care of," he said, finding a chair.

Louis and Thornton looked satisfied and thanked Desmond for his help, but it was Alexander who drew Desmond's attention. The man sat slumped in his chair, looking as if he needed to say something. Desmond hardly expected the man to be happy after earlier, what he did expect was relief; instead he found anxiety and the slightest trace of fear.

"What's wrong?" he asked Alexander, who shook his head.

At that moment Mark burst into the room, and quickly took in his surroundings. "So you told them?" he demanded from Alexander, puzzlement and anger contorting his features.

"Told us what?" said Louis, sitting up in his chair, frowning from Mark to Alexander.

"I've just been down at the brig, looking over the list of arrests, and Mac's name was missing!"

The room seemed to drop several degrees, the air of success minutes before icing over. Desmond thought fast, _Missing! He can't be missing,__ Mac's key to this whole pre-emptive strike,_ _I have to find him_. He made a move towards the door. "I'll get him." Louis and Mark went to follow.

Alexander turned his chair to face them. "No," he said firmly.

The three of them stopped, proceeding to turn around slowly in disbelief.

'No?!" said Louis.

"No," he repeated, even firmer than before.

"What are you playing at?"

Alexander sighed. "I'm not playing at anything. The truth is that right now, arresting Mac is one of the many things that may become a catalyst to start the uprising despite our efforts today. There are still many out there that we haven't arrested, who would revolt if we arrested him."

"But if we don't we're only delaying the inevitable!"

"It's a risk I know, but this way Mac's followers will go to him, we can take their names and know who is on our side and who isn't. I can start trying to reach these people and gain their trust. Besides Mac's no fool,_ his ruthlessness is_ _mistaken for carelessness_, he won't risk an uprising he knows he'll lose, so he'll tell his followers to bide their time and wait until he has the insiders he needs."

"But if we don't arrest him now and take care of him while we've got sufficient evidence, and testimony from the suspects we've just arrested, then he'll find some other way!"

"That may be," said Alexander, rising from his chair, he no longer wore a defeated expression and his anger was being stoked, "but if we do arrest him then we'll have an angry revolt on our hands and many deaths. _I don't want to lead with an iron fist_."

He looked at Louis expectantly, daring him to answer back. However, Louis had lost a lot of his fight, realising what it was he was doing: arguing with his friend.

He spoke softly, "I just don't understand."

Thornton cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since Desmond had entered the room. "Sir, maybe it would be best to deal with Mac sooner, rather than later—"

Alexander slammed his fist down onto the table, angry at everyone disobeying his word. Earlier when Louis had done it a loud thump had occurred, but when Alexander did it he cracked it as a loud boom reverberated throughout the room.

"_I_ AM IN CHARGE!" he shouted into the silence, "_NOT YOU_. _I _AM THE LEADER OF THIS ORGANISATION!" This time he grabbed underneath the table and with massive strength, heaved it over with a crash. He took a few, heaving breaths. "_I_, decide."

Louis left the room straight away, seemingly cowed, and Mark followed. Desmond felt the opposite, he was furious, he took three long steps towards Alexander and stopped, inches away from the man who heaved large oak tables over like they were made of foam and said: "Maybe you don't deserve to be leader. If you're what I've preserved, then I'm less proud than I was before."

With that he strode towards the door, his shoulder blades itching from the possibility of retribution, it never came, and Desmond swung open the door, stepped through, and slammed it behind him.

* * *

So there we go, tell me what you think, please.


	7. The Animus

Chapter 7

The Animus

Desmond didn't stop once on his journey back to his quarters; his fists were clenched at his sides and his teeth hurt from his constant grinding. _What the hell_, he thought, _how can the man be so short-sighted? I've been in this place almost three days and already I know more than him! _

He swung round another corner, colliding with a technician who protested as Desmond walked away. He threw an apology over his shoulder and saw lightening-blue eyes filled with ice behind designer glasses. Desmond ignored the man's anger, his own rage blotting everything else but his own life.

He came upon his quarters and flung open the door, faintly hearing slam into the wall before rebounding back and hitting him in the face, he uttered a curse as he grabbed the door and shut it carefully behind him, wary of any other traps.

"At last," said a familiar female voice.

Desmond instinctively jumped and spun around and found himself face-to-face with Lucy, sitting demurely in one of the room's armchairs with her legs crossed, and arms on either side of the chair's armrests with a wry smile attached to her smug face.

"BWAH!" he cried, clutching his heart.

"Manly," she commented dryly.

"It's a skill I've developed over the years," he managed to say. He clambered over to a chest of drawers and rested himself against it, catching his breath. "Lucy, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" he asked.

"I've been looking for you all day," she told him, "I figured since you ran away yesterday with a promise to talk soon I'd convinced myself you would try and find me."

Desmond looked to the ceiling as he tried to remember, he faintly recalled seeing Lucy, and then rushing away again. When he realised how that must have looked from her point of view he winced. 'Sorry," he said, "I had other things going on."

"From the hushed activity and the multiple arrests today, I gathered as much."

"Yeah…" he muttered, not wanting to discuss it. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

She fixed him with her eyes. "The real reason you're on this ship."

Desmond turned away from her and pretended to look for something in the chest of drawers. It was a while before he spoke. "I'm scared, Lucy," he said.

"Of what?" Lucy said, her voice filled with concern.

"Of going back in there." Desmond said, he paused, wondering how to phrase it. He turned and sat in another chair, wringing his hands. "You see, my ancestor, Altair, he is _nothing_ like me, the man has confidence, power, intelligence, and the ability to move through life and change things. Me, I'm a failed assassin, with six years of bartending, a crappy flat and no friends to my name.

"But lately… I don't know, it feels like all my time spent in his boots is rubbing off on me, and it's not like a picked-up accent you gain from spending a long time in a foreign country, it's the type where I climb buildings, can use knives, and even have his eagle vision!" He breathed deeply, in, and out. "I'm scared that, if I do decide to go back, I'll lose myself, my willpower is no match for his. I got all of these attributes from a weeks exposure, how do I deal with what might be months of it? What if by the end I'm wearing the robes and the hood and walking and talking and fighting like a centuries dead, medieval assassin?!" He looked at her beseechingly.

Lucy continued looking and Desmond and bit her lip. "I'll be honest with you Desmond, we can't know for sure. I could spout that what you'd be doing is for the 'greater good' and 'one man's sanity is worth a thousand lives", but I'm not going to. I think you've been through enough, and we have decided that it's your choice, not ours. I won't be completely innocent and say that what you do would be of great benefit; and that like your ancestor you can change things. Have you ever thought of—not working through Altair—but working together?"

Desmond frowned. "Working together?"

"Help him, help you; the faster this is done the better right?"

Desmond's face clouded over, in the sudden appearance of Lucy and the subsequent scaring he had forgotten about the events of earlier. "Tell that to Alexander," he said.

"What?"

So Desmond told Lucy everything that had happened over the last couple of days, his tracking Mac, the discovery of the revolt, and the consequential arrests. Throughout it she showed no reaction—she probably already had her suspicions, Desmond thought—except when he recounted Louis and Alexander's reactions; a case of anger meets sadness.

"But can't you see his position, Desmond?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "No matter how hard I try to."

"Alexander has been in charge of this organisation for over twenty years, he took the mantle from his father. Considering this, people whispered that just because he was his father's son didn't make him fit to command."

"Ouch," exclaimed Desmond.

"Exactly, so knowing this Alexander took on the role and soon those whispers died down, but as we all know where a rumour ends another begins. So then people started saying that he was taking this organisation down the wrong track—"

"Can I just ask?" Said Desmond, cutting in, "why do you people always refer to the Hashshashin as '_this organisation_'?"

Lucy sighed at the interruption. "Because it was easier, and after a while this has become less of a group of individual assassins and more of a, shall we say, nation. Now, can I continue?"

Desmond shook his head slightly. "By all means."

"Anyway, it gave a massive boost to Alexander's reign. You see, the man's the best leader we could ever have, because he responds to people's lack of confidence with his own and makes this organisation better. However," she paused, "we've never had a possible Templar spy—"

"Mac _is _a Templar spy!" Desmond stressed.

"That's beside the point!" said Lucy, angry at once again being interrupted. "We don't have enough proof he's with the Templars, it's just an ancient prejudice that this organisation has inherited. And you, Desmond, you!" She said, beginning to get flustered and coming with a few steps of him. "You have spent a weeks recently locked in a machine where the Templars were your enemy, your conviction that Mac is a Templar spy is discredited by your questionable sanity!"

"_My _questionable sanity?!" Desmond bellowed. "I'm not the one that lets traitors sit in their rooms where they're able to formulate another plan to bring innocent people to harm. Now I agree that Alexander is a great leader, but I honestly cannot fathom the logic behind his decision!"

He swallowed and looked her in the eye. He said softly, "I just don't understand."

Lucy looked at Desmond with something akin to sympathy. "I don't expect you to," she said. "Just trust in him, please. For me?"

Desmond looked at Lucy and saw that she wasn't trying to bully him into doing as she wanted, but was looking after Alexander. It wasn't anything to do with love, at least not the marital kind, but she trusted him because he had done something for her, given her something. _I wonder what it is_, Desmond thought.

Desmond nodded slightly. "Okay," he said, "for you."

"Thank you," Lucy replied, going back to her seat.

"You know, Lucy," said Desmond, stopping her in her tracks, "you're about the only person I trust in this place."

Lucy looked about to say something, but stopped herself. She smiled slightly in thanks and sat back down. "So," she said. Are you game?"

Desmond fixed her blue eyes with his own and said, "What do I need to do?"

* * *

Desmond and Lucy traversed the corridors; they were quiet this time of the morning. Lucy had left shortly after their conversation last night, leaving Desmond to his thoughts. He had spent hours going over in his head what he was about to do.

Theoretically, the Animus would make no difference to him, but there hadn't been many tests and no one had been exposed to it for as long as Desmond had. He'd been told he should be fine, but all he could picture was that man's blood on the floors and walls back at Abstergo's lab.

They started up a corridor and with surprise Desmond noticed that this was the guarded area he had never been allowed to during his explorations. The man guarding the door gave a nod to Lucy and a forced nod to Desmond, who mock-saluted the man in return. Lucy swiped a card and punched in 7-digit-code before standing on her tiptoes to have her retina scanned. She gestured Desmond in and Desmond as he did so Desmond's fear came back in a rush.

Inside the room was white and grey. There were white-washed walls, grey girders and desks and tables, and in the middle of the room was the Animus. It looked the same as it always did, only this time the whole floor was a thick, see-through glass. Desmond approached the machine with a sort of reverence, laying a hand on its warm surface. A glint of pulsing bronze and silver caught his eye, and Desmond gazed at the the Piece of Eden at the bottom of the Animus. He looked about wildly and was shocked to find that there were no guards in this room, he instantly went to grab it protectively, before seeing that it was surrounded by metal rods, hooked up to a sophisticated alarm system. He continued staring at the orb, finding that coherent thought was no longer possible, his world stretched, all that mattered to him was that he got his hands on it's surface.

"Ah, I see he's arrived then."

Desmond snapped round with a start, and retracted his hand like a child caught in the cookie jar. He frowned, the man who had just entered had familiar eyes through designer glasses. He too recognised Desmond at about the same time, and then his hopeful features turned into a disapproving glare.

Desmond grimaced. "Sorry about the knock yesterday, Doc," he apologised.

The man shrugged. "It's no matter." He turned to Lucy and his face split into an exaggerated smile. "Ah, Lucy! Wonderful to see you again." He opened his arms for a hug.

Desmond looked at Lucy, expecting to see the same sort of expression in her features, He was instead shocked to find her biting her tongue and narrowing her eyes with barely concealed anger and disgust. He sensed there was bad feeling here.

"Arnold," Lucy coldly replied.

The man's face fell instantly upon recognizing her tone, he nodded to her cordially before turning to Desmond. "If you would like to lie down we shall begin straight away." Arnold gestured to the Animus and then turned his back to calibrate some equipment.

Desmond threw a questioning look at Lucy, who replied with a dismissive wave. He shrugged and then hopped onto the Animus, before lying on his back. His heart was pumping like mad, he could hear the blood in his ears and feel it throbbing through his arms as he gripped the Animus' leather cushioning.

"Just relax," said Lucy, coming over. "You've done this before."

Desmond nodded and just stared at the ceiling, trying to think of anything other than this moment. _Here we go_, he thought. It was still strange how, even now, he was feeling excited too; Altair and his power awaited.

Lucy pressed a button on the console attached to the Animus, and pulled a small lever; Desmond's world was plunged into pure whiteness.

* * *

Heyo, I know, this chapter is a little shorter, but the next one's bigger... better, and more badass.


	8. Altair

I know, a long chapter. Just bear with me, I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**Altair**

The sun shone down; bright and hot upon the garden. The leaves were green, the grass swayed from side to side to side, birds chirped and fluttered from tree to tree. And though it was not noticed by anyone present, time carried on just as it always had. The masonry of the fortress continued to slowly erode unseen, as it too carried on its existence along with all the gardens flowers, and what little breeze there was on the air was warm and carried the scent of jasmine.

The four people standing in this garden did not notice the passage of time, because for them, time had stopped. For them, nothing mattered but the image rotating before them.

Of those present, only one of them truly understood what had happened to cause this standstill in time.

He stood stiffly still, almost an effigy resembling the stonework of the fortress; his posture one of hidden power, grace and unbelievable speed. He was dressed differently than the others. He wore the white robes of his order, in the way that one of his rank would. They were long and flowing, split at the sides and in the middle, so as not to hinder freedom of movement.

A red sash was tied to his waist, and a large belt that covered his abdomen held his many knives, although many of its sheaths were empty, their knives having been spent in the fight. A short blade was strapped to his back, held in place by the straps which every assassin wore. A hood was drawn over his head, a point directly over his head formed a shape similar to an eagle's beak, and hid much of his face from sight, allowing nothing more than the lower part of a dark face to be seen. One both of his forearms his wore leather guards; the one on his left forearm containing a hidden blade. Among his weapons was the curved sword strapped to his hip, the sword that had killed his master.

He seemed to share a sort of vigil with the other three. Two of them wore the same grey apprentice garb of their order, with no hoods or long flowing robes. Their leader wore the scholar's robes: a black coat and white decorated robes. He was missing his left arm, taken from him when it was wounded too severely to be kept and risked infection, wounded whilst fighting to save his and his brother's lives.

The garden they stood in had several levels to it; they stood on the topmost one. The garden's beauty was marred by two things: the golden globe of light, showing continents and oceans many of them never-before-seen lands, and an object the man in white could not take his eyes off—a body.

Time seemed to have come to a standstill.

But they all knew it must soon start again.

For a long time they stood, all but one of them gazing in wonder at the globe of golden light, none of them speaking. The man in the scholar's robes spoke first.

"What is that thing?" he wondered aloud, effectively breaking the silence; and so the passage of time started again.

The armed man in white robes heard him, and was able, for a moment, to tear his eyes away from the prone, twisted body; he remembered the last words they had spoken to one another.

"_You held fire in your hand, old man. It should have been destroyed."_

"_Destroy the only thing capable of ending the crusades and creating true peace? Never."_

"_Then I will."_

"_We'll see about that."_

He eyed the thing. Remembering what it was, the power it contained. He had been about to destroy it before the others came, but he had been held back by its spell.

But now that spell was broken, and he remembered the words he had heard.

"_Destroy it! Destroy it as you said you would!"_

"_I…I can't."_

"_Yes you can, Altair. But you won't."_

He could destroy it.

Altair drew his sword, catching the attention of the man in scholars' robes. "What is it Altair? What are you doing?"

Altair approached the globe, raising his sword high, as the others watched in confusion. He brought the sword down at hard as he could, but his arm jarred to a stop. It was held in place by something, but this force held his sword in thin air and he could not move it. The sword angled itself, blade tip down, and began to grow hot. Altair watched in fascination as the blade began to melt, from the tip to the hilt, before it got to his hand he let go hurriedly. He gazed, mouth agape, as the hilt dropped to the tiles with a quick metal clank.

The man in scholar's robes was not looking at the space, he was looking at Altair.

"Why did you try to destroy it?" he asked in confused anger.

"Calm yourself, Malik," Altair said, turning towards the other man. "Why do you care so much for this device?" He understood that Malik didn't know what the device was; therefore he didn't know why it needed to be destroyed. But why did Malik want it in one piece at all?

"Do you not understand, Altair?" Malik said in delight, his expression one of mingled exasperation and excitement. "You have not studied maps as I was required to do, but you have seen them. Look closely." Malik walked over to Altair, and with his only arm, pointed. "This," he said, then paused, stressing the importance of what he was about to say next, "is a map, of the _world_."

Altair frowned, but looked closer, and he saw that many of the landmasses and shapes he had seen on many maps and drawings were also upon this globe, only in greater detail.

Malik left Altair to gaze and turned towards his two remaining men. "Quickly, Acamar, Sirrah, get parchment from the library. Along with quills and ink, anything you need to start drawing," he said, pointing at the sphere. The men obeyed, and running back inside the fortress.

It was at this time that Malik noticed the body, and the smile fell from his face.

"Al Mualim?" he asked Altair.

Altair could not meet his gaze. "I—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence, as both their attentions were caught by a shout within the fort. They looked at each, and as one they too ran back into the library, barely able to dodge Malik's men as they themselves left, arms bearing quills and parchment. Altair and Malik were both surprised to find that, what looked like all the surviving assassins in Masyaf and what looked almost all of its townspeople, were assembled in the library's hall, and he could see more just outside in the courtyard.

The library was not a vast place, though it was filled with every rare book and scroll imaginable; accumulated over hundreds of years. It was a place of dignified beauty, holding the knowledge of things that others find heard to attain. Most of the grey, flag-stoned floor was hidden from view by the gathered crowd. The many pillars formed into ornately decorated arches: with the flowing red and white flags belonging to the order. Written in Arabic on each pillar was the phase: _'Knowledge is power, use it wisely'. _The bookcases were filled with leather-bound books of green, brown, black, red, white, pages held together by string, and scrolls laid in careful neatness next to each other.

Before they entered there had been a lot of talk, rising in pitch as others shouted to be heard over the din; however the noise ceased as soon as they caught sight of Altair. Then the talk started to build up again, but this time it was in whispers.

Altair turned to Malik. "The illusion must have broken," he said. "I do not know what I should to say to them."

Malik laid a hand on Altair's shoulder. "The words shall come."

Altair nodded. Turning back, he raised his arms high above his head, asking for silence. The assassins—confused—quietened, and waited to hear him speak.

"Brothers!" Altair began. "Tell me what is wrong."

The crowd began muttering again: more content with muttering amongst themselves than speaking aloud where it might get them in trouble, while Altair stood with his arms folded. A man stepped from the crowd, one of the many senior warriors that guarded the fortress.

"We are troubled Altair," Hadar called. "Many of us are confused. A lot of us remember doing various tasks… and then nothing. We came back here, and along the way, we found some of our brethren: dead." Murmurs of murder and explanations broke out at this word, many of the voices crying out for some kind of explanation as to how the men died.

And Altair tried to give them that explanation. "We were betrayed," he said.

"By whom?" Hadar asked, looking around at everyone, as if anyone of them could have been a traitor to the order.

Altair sighed, and then looked at all. "By our master: Al Mualim."

Shouts of rage broke out, but Hadar hushed them, though his own expression was thunderous. "Explain," he demanded.

"The treasure our master kept was no ordinary piece of silver—I'm sure you have all heard of it by now. It is a device that creates illusions. He was going to use it to enslave the world in order to create a false and forced 'peace'." Altair lowered his head. "I was able to stop him, with some help, but to get to him we had to get past some of our brothers."

There was an outbreak of shouts.

"Murderer!"

"Traitor!"

"LIAR!"

From the crowd there was some jostling, and many people were forced aside until seven men stepped from within the crowd's depths, five of them warrior assassins and two of them apprentices.

"_You_ are the traitor, and must die!" one of their number, Herark, spoke, drawing his sword. The others took up the cry, and drew their swords. "This is a blatant grab for power! You would have us believe that our master, the wise Al Mualim, was out to control us? Remember that we are your brothers Altair, and as such, we know you, _you_, and your arrogance! You want nothing more than to take Al Mualim's place and put yourself in charge. These, are the actions of a traitor!"

"Kill him!" the other men repeated, shouting to each other, working themselves into a frenzy.

A man stepped from the crowd. "Wait!" shouted Abbas, stopping the men with his voice before the wronged men started their attack. "Listen to him. Al Mualim has betrayed us. And, supposedly, Altair was able to stop him before he enslaved everybody in the world. I know it sounds like a fairytale and poor attempt at usurpation but his story rings of the truth," he spoke to the crowd. "I know I have always spoken ill of Altair, and if not for Malik I would be joining you in your attack," he told the men. "But Malik has told me of how Altair has changed. We were all loyal to Al Mualim, but none more so than Altair. If he has killed Al Mualim, it was for a _just_ reason."

Altair looked with surprise at Malik, who coloured slightly, and shrugged. Altair watched as many of the assassins broke one again into muttering. Many in the crowd were nodding their heads in agreement with Abbas' words, among them Raoul, who was nodding his head more fiercely than anyone else.

"This is a lie!" Herark shouted, turning to the crowd again, hushing them. "Are you going to stand idly by while our master's murderer stands before us making such claims?" No one stepped forward, they just watched in silent expectation, making him even angrier. "Fine!" he shouted. "If no one else will step forward, then we will do it by ourselves and save you cowards the work."

Malik went to step forward, not to give aid to the accusers, but to Altair. Altair stopped him with his arm and shook his head. "They have a right to fight for what they believe in," Altair explained. He patted Malik on the shoulder, and addressed the crowd. "Fate will decide who is victorious!"

Malik nodded his acknowledgement, but his eyes told Altair that if things looked to be going badly, that there was nothing Altair could do to stop him from stepping in.

"It will not come to that," said Altair, seeming to read his ally's thoughts. "I shall make sure of it."

Herark and his other four comrades began to fan-out and make a semi-circle around the bottom of the stairs; the two apprentices went to follow. But they were held back by Abbas and Raoul, the latter warning them that their action would be unwise. As Altair moved from his spot down the stairs the crowd moved backwards, making room for the imminent fight. Altair approached the waiting men. It was as though he were stepping into the mouth of a giant beast, and the swords being pointed at him accusingly were its teeth, waiting to devour him and bite down hard with a sick and fatal crunch.

Once Altair was in the semi-circle the five men closed in together around him so that they now surrounded him, hoping to close in on him and finish the fight quickly.

Hoping was futile.

Altair drew his short-blade, his sword having been destroyed. He took up a ready fighting stance, holding the blade high above his head in a reverse-grip, waiting for the enemy to strike. They attacked simultaneously, Herark lunging at Altair, who slid sideways to avoid it. Altair struck first at a man on his left who was aiming high to hack Altair's skull in two.

Altair took advantage of this opening. Activating his hidden blade, he stabbed it into the man's temple, and then hit him to the floor with a casual backhanded blow. Another assailant tried to disembowel his prey with a sideways slash. Altair ducked under it, and, turning slightly, stuck his short-blade into the man's exposed back, and then drew it out again quickly, leaving the finished assassin to drop to the floor with a thud.

All this had happened in a matter of seconds. And just like that, his opponents were down to three.

To Altair this fight wasn't just about killing these men; it was about summoning all his talent and training to take these men out as fast and as skilfully as he could. To show the assembled men and women that he was worthy enough to be called leader. He didn't want to be, he was content with the way things were before, but he had made his choice. But right now he needed to show that this was what would happen to people who tried to kill him.

Herark was fearful he knew now he was facing a master, he was careful to hide it, this was not difficult as anger flooded throbbed through his veins to replace the fear. He had heard tell of Altair's skill, but he had thought—as many others had—that they were just exaggerated rumours and stories told by the man himself, to create and increase his 'prestige'. Now he was seeing that they were in fact true. He would have to be careful.

Altair patiently waited for the next attack, lazily pacing back and forth, his sword low, goading his attackers. But the remaining men were more hesitant after seeing their comrades killed so easily. Two of the attackers met each other's eyes for a moment, speaking as only experienced warriors could, coordinating their next assault, and then suddenly from Altair's left came an attack. But Altair's instincts told him it was a feint. He pretended to fall for the man's lunge, whilst at his back the other man lunged forward to slash at Altair's vulnerable back. But Altair spun round, fast as a snake, avoiding both lunges. He then grabbed the man behind him by the collar, and pulled him onto his ally's waiting blade, extinguishing the flame of the man's life.

Bewildered at what he had just been forced to do, the man who had killed his comrade let go of his sword and was quickly finished off by a slash Altair's short-blade to his throat. The man fell to his knees, falling only seconds after his fellow attacker. This left one man.

Herark was even more scared now, and even angrier, he knew he was finished, but he had made his mind up that if he was to die then he would die well. He attacked Altair in a mad rage, in grief for the loss of his friends. Altair took the attack calmly, parrying Herark's blows with ease. The time came when Herark tried to grab Altair on to his waiting sword. Altair twisted Herark's wrist and brought it behind his back. But instead of booting him in the back as he usually would have, he kicked Herark in the back of the legs, forcing him to his knees.

Herark sat there, facing the crowd Altair at his back. Altair pressed the heel of his left wrist against Herark's neck.

He bent close and whispered in Herark's ear, "_This_ is the price of arrogance."

And with that he activated his hidden blade, cutting deep into his victim's jugular. The crowd sounded a collective gasp as Herark fell, face forward, onto the flag stones of the library floor, the blood pouring from his neck quickly making a dark red pool around him.

All the while this had been going on; Malik had watched Altair in appreciation. It wasn't hero worship; it was admiration for a warrior's skill, in its most pure, and deadly form. He remembered now why Al Mualim had sent Altair to do his most dangerous tasks: because no one else could.

After the collective gasp, the crowd remained silent. Abbas and Raoul let go of the two apprentices they had been restraining. One of the apprentices, his face a mask of shock, turned towards Abbas and Raoul, thanking them with a nod, grateful that it wasn't their blood seeping between the cracks.

Altair took in the faces of the crowd, and, pointing at Herark's corpse, yelled: "Does anybody else here wish to challenge me for the title of master to this order, and of this settlement?"

Although the title of master hadn't originally been the reason for the fight, everyone who had witnessed the turn of events realised now that Altair was worthy of the job.

No one came forward.

"Then I formally announce that this town is under the protection of the assassins," Altair said, to make things official. When he saw that people were satisfied, he said: "I want you all to return to you homes now. Spend it with you families and friends. Spend it in respect and grief for Al Mualim, and remember all the good he ever did."

Dazed, the crowd left with no argument, talking of the day's events. As they did so some of the crowd kept glancing back at the five dead bodies that littered the floor. A few apprentices stayed behind to take care of the bodies, they offered to take Al Mualim's, but Altair denied them.

Abbas and Raoul had stayed behind and were talking, Altair sensed they wanted to speak with him and called them over. "What are your needs?" Altair asked them.

Raoul looked at Abbas, who nodded in reassurance. Raoul turned to Altair.

"Master, we've been talking," Raoul said. "And we think that even though mourning for Al Mualim would be the right thing to do at the moment, it would leave Masyaf with almost no defence. We know some men, trustworthy men, and we can rely on them to maintain the peace and watch the gates. Also, we need to see to the dead."

The dead reminded Altair of today's loss of life, in his eyes an unnecessary loss. The day would soon be known as the day he killed his brothers.

Raoul was the first to call him master, and Altair already decided he hated it. They didn't need to ask his permission to deploy some men, but they asked out of respect.

"Firstly," said Altair, "do not call me master, for I am not worthy of it. No," he said, when Raoul had tried to object, "that is my decision. The name Altair has satisfied me so far, and I shall keep it. And second, you have my permission to guard Masyaf, and make sure to give those men a good burial."

Abbas nodded thanks. "Safety and peace brother."

Altair bowed his head slightly. "Upon you as well."

Abbas and Raoul left, to go and do their work. Altair looked behind him to look for Malik, but found that the man was missing. A cursory glance revealed he wasn't in the library, so Altair ran up the stairs two at a time and jogged into the garden.

Malik was again gazing at the golden globe in wonder. Altair was about to join him when he spotted Al Mualim's body, a few metres away. He slowed his pace, and approached the body solemnly.

Al Mualim lay on his side, left arm outstretched from when the Piece of Eden had rolled from his hand. As he got closer Altair noticed that on of Al Mualim's eyes was still open, its milky white emptier than ever.

Altair bent down close and closed the eye, saying a small prayer as he did so. He arranged the body so that Al Mualim was now on his back, arms crossed at his chest with his sword underneath. Al Mualim could be sleeping, if not for the blood surrounding him and his throat.

Altair sensed Malik approach from his peripheral vision, and heard him stop just a little behind him.

"He looks almost restful," Malik said. Altair, still crouched on the ground with his back to him, could not see the expression on Malik's face, but could imagine the studying look in his eye. "Altair, we need to discuss some things."

Altair sighed; he had known this was coming. "What happened to your other two men?" he asked, trying to avoid Malik's question. He pushed himself up, and gestured that Malik should follow him, into the privacy of the library; they left the garden and walked into the fortress, the bodies that had littered the floor earlier were now gone, but the smeared bloodstains gave evidence that they had been dragged outside.

Malik sighed. "We attacked the back of the fortress. Met some thralls at the cliffs. A fight ensued. Mizar was knocked off the cliff edge and Keid was killed." The way Malik told it signalled to Altair that he should not ask for details, so he just nodded and left it at that.

"We still need to talk, Altair," Malik reminded him.

"What of?"

"What our next move will be." Malik said.

Altair said nothing as they continued up the left side of the steps to where the master's desk was located. He did not want to talk of the future; so much had happened today. Riding here after finding out that Al Mualim had betrayed not only him, but their order as well. Having to fight off, and kill, his brothers, but most of all, the pain of Al Mualim's betrayal becoming real and not suspicion, and being forced to end his plot.

Altair was trying to quash any guilt he was feeling with cold, hard fact. He had to die.

But did he?

_It was necessary. The fate of the entire world was at stake. It was kill or be killed, as simple as that._

Altair stopped suddenly, the thought had not been his own, and yet he knew the words were true.

"Altair you have not answered me," Malik prompted, interrupting Altair's thoughts.

"Sorry?" Altair asked, only half listening.

"I said how do you expect to be able to lead us if you do not have a plan, a next move?"

By now they had reached the back of the upper floor, where Al Mualim's desk still resting between two bookshelves. Unlike previous times, the aisles between bookshelves were devoid of scholars.

It was when they reached the spot where he had received many of his orders that Altair finally answered.

"Malik, I do not have anything planned," Altair said, walking over to the closet in the left-hand corner of the upper floor. Opening both if its doors wide, he examined the contents within with a scrutinizing eye. He spoke to Malik without looking at him, "I did not plan any of this to happen. I have no idea what I am doing. It's all falling apart, and at the moment all I can do is try to hold it together with my bare hands."

Altair studied the contents of the closet further; this was Al Mualim's weapon locker for his personal use; close at hand in case of an attack. Also inside it were Altair's previous weapons, the sword he had been given after bringing the traitor before Al Mualim; the place where this had all began. The sword he had been given after slaying The Merchant King rested upon two hooks, secure in its scabbard. He shook his head, for although the sword was a good one, it was not the sword he was looking for.

And there it was, sheltered in velvet. As he unwrapped the fabric, he knew that this was to be his sword. It wasn't just a good blade, but had been created and gifted by Al Mualim himself. He remembered the words he had spoken.

"_Here, my gift to you. In gratitude for the good work you've done."_

Al Mualim had had both the short-blade strapped to his back, and the sword he held in his hands now, made especially for Altair. Both handles were inlaid with silver; the sword's pommel was made in the shape of an eagle's head. Carved into the silver of the sword were the words: _'Nothing is true, Everything is permitted'_.

In his time as an assassin in this brotherhood, he had favoured this sword above others. It had been made for him, had great balance and power. It was also something to remember Al Mualim by. He strapped on the sword, once again feeling the reassuring weight of a sword at his hip.

"Altair, are you even listening to me?" Malik asked, cutting into Altair's reverie.

Altair spun round; having momentarily forgotten Malik was there. "Honestly no. I do not care for your words at the moment," he said. He sighed and rubbed his face briefly. "I shall have a shroud prepared for Al Mualim's funeral and then spend the rest of the day in silent vigil. That, for now, is my next move."

"Altair, do you not understand? We need order; people need to know what is to happen to them. You can't suddenly become master and then sit around doing nothing!" Malik was seething, pacing the floor in a furious line.

Something inside Altair snapped.

"You do not understand!" he shouted, striding over to Malik until he was inches from his face. "I have killed our master; a man who gave me a life, a man who made me who I am today! I cannot carry on my life until I have grieved!"

He walked back around the table, looking for things to smash and break.

"THIS WAS NOT MEANT TO BE!"

And with that he kicked the table with all his might, the table rocked slightly, and there was a thud.

Altair turned round, trying to hide the pain his foot, and his soul, hidden from Malik. But then he heard Malik say:

"What is that?"

Altair turned round and saw, lying on the floor, directly underneath the table: a book. Curious, he bent down and picked it up.

* * *

I know its long, hope it wasn't a drag. Feel free to comment, critical or otherwise.


	9. Diurnalis

Sorry it has been a long while, well, shorter than before and longer than recent times, but I have been annoyingly busy. Anyway. I thought I would post this chapter as a sort of hats off to the release of Assassins Creed 2 tomorrow (for me at least). I was a bit miffed to find that there were similarities between the beginning of this story and the beginning of theirs, but I don't want to elaborate. Safe to say though, I'm excited, despite that bloody gametrailer review.

This chapter is more of a filler for now, but the plot will pick up again next chapter. Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 9

Diurnalis

Altair gazed at the book in silence, as if afraid of what it contained, he could sense Malik's expectant presence over his shoulder, silently urging him to open the book and satisfy their shared curiosity. Altair dragged his fingers softly across the surface of the book, feeling the old and cracked texture of its dark brown leather. He wanted to open it; it came from Al Mualim's very desk, and he was a man of many secrets and a mysterious past and to explore that past had been a prospect of hunger for him. He turned the book over in his hands, searching for some clue as to what its purpose, he saw a date scrawled in black ink: _1152_; the year Al Mualim had become Master of the order Altair remembered with excitement.

A loud clatter sounded below, and Malik's attention was drawn and he leaned over the railing to reprimand whoever was responsible. Altair took the opportunity, and fumbled open the book, the first page was almost filled, but he didn't have time to read it all, he skimmed it quickly and absorbed two things that were within the first line stood out to him: one was Al Mualim, and the other, was journal.

Altair's fingers ached, he had a sudden yearning to flip open the book and start reading, and soak up his former master's wisdom. But he held back, he wanted to do so in private. He could feel the knowledge within almost burning his fingertips: the journal of his master would surely contain his Templar origins, show him all Al Mualim knew of his enemies, and give him a lead on how to govern the Hashshashin.

He chucked the leather-bound tool onto the desk, catching Malik's attention.

"Malik-" Altair paused. He had to choose his words carefully. He didn't want to tip his new-found ally off to the fact that he was being manipulated. "I was wrong before- what you said was… right. I should make some decisions, but it has been a long day and much has happened. However, if I were to ask you of your help, would you give it?"

Malik's features went through several expressions: the first was bemusement, then satisfaction, and finally, worry; he chewed his lip and turned round to lean over the railing once again. Altair clenched his fist, he could feel the urge to be impatient, but he held it at bay. He couldn't rush this.

"We have been enemies longer than we have been friends, Altair," said Malik, slowly. "I gave you my support earlier because… well, to be honest with you – I don't know why." He sighed and bowed his head, and Altair, intrigued, walked over and joined him beside the balcony. "I think it is because right now we need leadership, we need strength and …discipline and… focus, and that is what you have, that is what you can give us."

"I am not sure that sounds like a yes," said Altair, slowly and unsurely.

"It is a yes. I just wanted to tell you why." Malik turned away, head bowed in thought. "I shall leave you in peace now."

Altair frowned as he watched the conflicted man walk away. His intention had been to ask Malik to do something that would lure him away from the office, he hadn't expected to see inside the man's head and heart. However, the conversation had served its purpose, and now he was alone.

He turned towards the window and stopped suddenly. Maybe being alone wasn't what he needed right now. For what might come he would need all the allies he could get. The master of the Hashshashin had complete servitude from his members, they were at his every beck and call, but each master that had taken the reins of leadership had never abused their power. Those that had hadn't lasted long; that is why Altair had let those men fight. It had been their right to challenge him.

He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time though.

The thoughts melted away as he swept round the table and seated himself in the recently vacant chair, holding the book in his hands. Altair looked around and listened; there was no movement to be seen or heard. He opened the page again and read.

_This is the property of Al Mualim, and this journal is a witness, to my work and all the wonders that shall befall its success. I write this because I have recently been elected Master, of what order I shall not say, but if you are reading this then you will know. _

_I feel that by writing my experiences and mistakes as I lead—and I will make mistakes, of that I am sure—I can somehow learn from them how to lead!_

_I am an__ impassioned__ man, however my mentor saw it before me. He said that my belief was dangerous. And when I asked what belief, he answered: peace. Peace, he says, is not what our order is about, our order is to provide chaos for the rich and fear for the poor._

_Chaos? Fear? I had read in the manuscripts in the library that peace, order and stability was our purpose, why then would we inspire the very things that__ destabilise__ a world. I asked him this, and he told me that it was foolish to 'fight the current', as it were. _

_I knew then, right from the age of nine, that he had to die. _

Below it, in fresher script—but the same flowing handwriting—was written:

_Ha! What a fool I was back then, to believe that peace could be achieved so easily if we all just believed in it! I have lived through enough decades of death and destruction and chaos, and the world and everyone in it is no closer to peace, and we never will be! _

_Unless we destroy the T__emplars._

_Surprised, Altair? They do not call me wise because I am learned and read ancient texts, but because I plan. And I knew, from the moment I involved you in my plot that you had the ability to—if not finish—then continue the job I have started. This book is your guide Altair, and if fate is on its right course then you are the one that has found it. Far-fetched? Indeed. But I planted the seeds in your mind from the very beginning, I didn't centre your mission briefing around my desk for my health, but because I knew you would be drawn here after my death. _

_I will die, in fact it is essential to the plan that my legacy passes to you, and not just the legacy of this order, but of my life's work. You are worthy, and you have seen what the Templars wrought and you know what you must do. My journal is a guide, remember this always._

_You were my best__ and last student._

_Al Mualim_

Altair sat, frozen, the book clutched in his hands as tight as though he were hanging off the edge of a cliff. He looked down, and read, and re-read, and read again. Short messages and words, things that made no sense, events and scribbles and meanings that didn't match and incomprehensible thoughts and the reasoning of a man that has drunk too much and was then clouted about the head with steel until his ears bled and his head rang to match his ears.

It wasn't possible.

He flicked through the pages, he wasn't thorough, but he skimmed to look for any sign of his name. But it was never mentioned. He searched desperately for any sort of sign of contact from his Master. He didn't find it until he came to the end of the book.

_If I know you like I do, then you will do the obvious and go to the end of the tale__, but I warn you, you have to truly understand my journey to understand its end. I had grown... disillusioned with the Templars. My old counterparts were bent on domination and forced peace through a device of mere silver._

_But then I saw it, I saw it Altair, a__nd I understood. Greed, that is what it prays on, it takes whatever greed you have and multiplies it by a thousand, the temptation is so great that you feel you must kill to have it. I have... lucid moments, moments where I am able to write these words down. You might think that the Piece of Eden controls people, but that is not true, in the times that I have secretly experimented with it control has been mine, but the temptation to unleash its full power is slowly growing, and I feel it will not be long before I can hold back. I did not wish to lay the task of my death upon your shoulders, but you were the only one who would not succumb to the Piece of Eden's power._

_My last hope is not for me, but for our order, and the destruction of our enemies. For though they have lost this piece, there are many more that they would wish to get their hands on._

_Heed my words, and let no one else but yourself and those you know to be unsusceptible to the Piece of Eden see it. Otherwise, it will bring nothing but peril. Remember!_

Altair's hands shook, and the book rattled on the table slightly as he laid it down. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and came out of his stupor. He turned his head from side to side wildly, scanning his surroundings. Nothing had changed, the room remained empty, and the only sound to be heard were quiet murmurs from the courtyard outside.

His head was spinning, trying to come to term with what he had just read. He had always believed Al Mualim to be a stern and unforgiving Master, wise and powerful, the perfect leader for their order. It was his passionate lectures of the evil in the holy land and the machinations of the Templars that had inspired the fire inside Altair to see them defeated. However, the fact that his mentor, a man he had trusted with every facet of his life and the lives of the order, was a Templar himself had deeply wounded Altair.

His fist clenched in his lap as he remembered the fight, he had been like stone, emotionless and hurt, and numb to have been betrayed so. To learn that it had not been his master's fault and that he had had the best intentions was like twisting the weapon that had caused the wound. He didn't know what to do. He knew he would have to study the journal further; its size promised a long story in store, and while half of him wished to tear the book open and read with abandon, another part of him felt sick—revolted—at the idea of reading a dead man's thoughts.

Altair took a deep breath, and picked the book up, and with careful deliberation, tucked it into the robes behind his belt, where it could not be seen. For now, he would keep it a secret.

His head snapped up suddenly as a screeching cry of agony erupted from the garden. Altair was their in a flash, vaulting over the balcony and heading up the stairs three at a time before launching himself out the doors.

The sight that met him stopped his sharp movements and made him still instantly.

In the garden the two apprentices had been sat, lecterns on their laps, as they drew the globe. Now there was a state, one of the apprentices, Sirrah, had thrown his writing tools; Altair saw his quill snapped in two, and his ink horn cracked; its contents spattered across the flagstones, grossly similar to blood. The other apprentice, Acamar, was standing to the right; he had set his equipment down and was simply staring in abject horror at his friend.

Sirrah was hunched on the floor, hugging himself tightly and rocking back and forth. Altair could hear a strange keening noise, that was rising in pitch with every growing second, issue forth from the young apprentice, and felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Sirrah…" he said.

Sirrah's head snapped up, Acamar flinched but Altair stood his ground; but he felt it was with some difficulty. Sirrah's face was drained white and his eyes where white, devoid of their black pupils and honey brown irises. All that was left in those eyes was as white as some of the large blocks of ice he had seen in rich merchant's houses. Blood had begun to ooze and tickle from the corners of his eyes, from his nose, and mouth and ears, its rich red staining his robes as it travelled down his contorted and twisted face; a picture of torment.

Sirrah suddenly gave a strangled yelp and struggled to his feet unevenly, causing Altair's hand to drop reflectively to his sword hilt. But it wasn't necessary. Sirrah's high pitched whine reached a final wrenching of the soul, and the blood vessels in his neck that had been straining, popped, splattering Altair and Acamar in the blood; Altair felt afflicted. Acamar stood frozen, wanting to tend to his friend, but Altair could see a fear that mirrored his own.

"What happened?" he asked Acamar.

Acamar never tore his eyes from the body, but managed to stammer out an answer. "I… we… we were sitting and drawing as Malik had told us to do. And Acamar was curious about… the object… he had a love for silver you see…" a grimace occurred at the mention of his friend's penchant for silver, "I always said it would be his undoing."

Altair couldn't have agreed more. He thought back to the words he had recently read, _Heed my words, and let no one else but yourself and those you know to be unsusceptible to the Piece of Eden see it, otherwise it will bring nothing but peril. Remember! _Altair's eyes widened as he came to the answer, he ran from the garden, leaving a grieving apprentice in his wake, and headed back to the desk.

Altair came upon Al Mualim's coffer in a panicked rush, and after wrenching open the lid he rummaged through its contents. He had almost given into panic when his fingers brushed its surface, and he dragged out the winged container of silver; scattering contents within the coffer over the floor as he did so. In his hands he held tight the container from which the piece of Eden had originally been kept in. Altair hoped it was more than decoration.

He again raced back to the garden and without thought or hesitation, ran flat-out towards the innocent silver sphere and picked it up, the global image disappeared the instant it made contact with flesh. He tore off the container's lid and forced the deadly apple into its true resting place. Altair heaved a sigh of relief, watched by a curious Acamar.

Altair would go up against a dozen men and laugh at their misfortune, but a small piece of silver had caused him to shake and sweat the way he hadn't since his first mission. Who knew what havoc it would cause.

* * *

Diurnalis = Latin for journal.


End file.
